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Cftitlr Strut, Finttnirf. 



Original Dedications, 
l . The Author's Address— Importance of Authors 

—Plan of the Work Steele. 

<2. History of the Author— the Lizard Family.... 

3. Remarks on Collins' Discourse on Free-think- 

ing Streleor Berkeley. 

4 . On Dedications— the Author to himself Pope. 

5. Family of the Lizards— the Females Steele. 

6. The same— Sir Harry Lizard 

7. Conversation on Marriage— Smith's Letters to r 

Sir Francis Walsingham 

8. On Passion— Story of Licenciado Esquivel and 


5. Character of Mr. Charwell— his Economies 

— Letter on Free-thinking 

10. On Dress— Letter cf Simon Sleek on that 


11. OnReproof. Gay. 

Letter on the Obsequium Catholicon, and 

Cures by it Pope. 

12. On Criticism, and the Artifices of Censorious 

Critics Steele. 

13. Account of the Younger Sons of the Lizards.. 

14* Account of two thoughtless young Men — 

Fashion of driving Carriages 

15. Love Verses — Easy Writing 

16. On Poetry— Songs — Song Writing 

17. On Illicit Love— Story of a French Knight ... 

1 8. Thoughts on the Prospect of Death— Psalm by 

Sir Philip Sidney 

19. On the Influence of Vice— Insensibility to Vir- 

tuous Sentiment — Henry IV. of France, his . 

Prayer before Battle 

90. On Duelling 

2 1 . Excellency and Superiority of the Scriptures. . 

22. On a Country Life— Pastoral Poetry 

«3. On the same 

94. Jack Lizard's Return from the University — 

On Pedantry — Conversation 

95. On Lord Verulam's History of Henry VII.. Budgell. 
96 All Women are Ladies— Letter recommending 

a Wife to Sir Harry Lizard Steele. 

97. Grounds to expect a Future State proved... Berkeley. 

98. On Pastoral Poetry Steele. 

99. Essay on Laughter— several Kinds of Laugh- 


30. On Pastoral Poetry 

31. Various Schemes of Happiness Budgell. 

39. The Subject of Pastoral Poetry treated in an 

Allegory Steele. 

39. On the Merits of the Tragedy of Cato— Pro- 

logue and Epilogue 

34. Conversation on Fine Gentlemen ■ . ■■ 

35. The Pineal Gland discovered— Voyage through 

several Berkeley. 

30. Letter on Punning Birch. 

37. On the Tragedy of Othello— Story of Don 

Alonzo Hughes. 

S8. On Pretty Gentlemen— Letter from a Gentle- 
man-like Man Steele. 

39 Observations on the Pineal Gland of a Free- 
thinker Berkeley. 

40. On the Pastorals of Pope and Philips Pope. 

41. Censure of a Passage in the Examiner Steele. 

49. Gifts necessary to a Story-teller..... 

♦3. Opinions on the Characters of Lucia and Mar- 

ciain C&to... -. — . 


44. Conduct of certain Old Fellows in Gray's Inn 

Gardens Steele. 

45. Miseries of Seduction—Cyrus and Panthea... 

46. History of Madam Maintenon 

47. The same continued 

48. concluded 

49. Essay on Pleasures, Natural and Fantastical- 

Pleasures of I magination Berkeley. 

50. Visit to the Country— Offensive Barber— Ro- 

mantic Pleasures Steele , 

51. On Sacred Poetry — David's Lamentation over 


52. Colbert's Conversation with the French King 

on the Power of the Dutch 

53. Strictures on the Examiner's Liberties with 

the Character of 

34. On Equality in Happiness and Misery — — — 

55. Importance of Christianity to Virtue Berkeley. 

56. Reproof and Reproach, a Vision Parm.l. 

57. Of Courtship— Questions and Rules for Steele. 

58. Public Spirit— Letter from a Hackney Author 

— from a Patriotic Drinker — from an Osten- 
tatious Lady 

59. Letters on Cato 

CO. On the various Modes of reading Books — 

6i. On Cruelty to the Brute Creation— Fable of 

Pilpay Pope. 

62. Visit to Westminster School— Utility of Public 

Seminaries Berkeley 

63. Strictures on the Examiner — Extract from 

Lucas' Practical Christianity Steele. 

64. Petition of the Artificers, of Esau Ringwood, 

Susannah How-d'ye-call, and Hugh Pounce 

— Letter on Cato 

65. Improper Conduct at Church — Poverty of 

the Clergy hurtful to Religion 

66. Common Fame, a Vision Parnell. 

67. Fate of Poets— Recommendation of Tom 

D'Urfey Addison. 

68. Letters on the Wife proposed to Sir Harry 

Lizard Steele. 

69. On Fenelon's Demonstration of the Existence, 

Wisdom, and Omnipotence of God — — 

70. Analogy between St. Paul's and the Christian 

Church — Narrowness of Free-thinkers Berkeley. 

71. Observations on the Increase of Lions — Cha- 

racter of a Lion Addison. 

72. On the Oxford Terra5-filius— Abuse of his 

Office Steele. 

73. On the Improper Interference of Parents in 

the Disposal of their Children— Letters on 
Passion — Pee vishness— Shyness - 

74. Extract from a Sermon of Bishop Beveridge.. 

75. Extracts from the Sermons of two Divines ... 

76. Endeavour to reconcile the Landed and Tra- 

ding Interests 

77. On the Shortsightedness of Critics, Misers, 

and Free-thinkers Berkeley. 

78. Receipt to make an Epic Poem Pope. 

79. On the Miseries of the Poor— Recommenda- 

tion of their Case Steele. 

80. Strictures on the Examiner -— 

81. Soliloquy of an Athenian Libertine — Prayer 

of one who had been a Libertine 

82. Death and Character of Peer the Comedian.. — • 

83. On Happiness— obstructed by the Free-think- 

m* Btrnetey. 



•4. Silly Halntiof Coffee-house Oiators— Twisting 

off Muttons Steele. 

• >. On Scandal— Letter from a Sufferer by Ca- 
lumny — from Daniel Button Steele. 

9t). Classical" Descriptions— of the War Horse in 


87. General Taste for Intrigue— Immorality of 

Servants j Character of a Master 

88. Superiority of the Christian Ideas of the Be- 

ing ana Attributes of a God Berkeley. 

89. Christian Ideas of a Future Stale 

90. Strictures on the Examiner — Letter to one of 

the Writers in the Guardian Steele. 

91. Account of the Short Club Pope. 

!)«. The same, Characters of the Members '- 

93. Thoughts on the Immortality of the Soul— 

on the Pharisees and Sadducees IFotton. 

94. On Education Steele. 

91. Adventure of a Strolling Company— Letters 

on Lions — Coffee-houses — a Virtuoso— on 

the Terrae-filius 

90. A Proposal for Honorary Rewards— Coins 

and Medals Additon. 

97. Letter from Simon Softly, complaining of a 

Widow — Advice to him 

19?. Notice of the Tatler and Spectator— Scheme 

of a Lion's Head at Button's 

99. Essay on National Justice— a Persian Story.. 

100. On the Tucker— Naked Neeks— Laws of Ly- 

curgus — Position of Venus 

K>1. Letters from France— Gayety of the French. 

102. Variableness of the English Climate 

103. On the Fireworks — Serious Reflections on the 


104. Story of a French Gentleman— Letter on th* 

Manners of the French 

105. Exhibition of the Charity Children— Propo- 

sals to extend our Charities 

106. Vision ofAurelia with a Window in her Breast 

107. Letter from a Projector, offering himself as 

a Nomenclator— Letter from Messrs. Dit- 

ton and Whiston 

10S. Institution of the Tall Club 

Correspondence on the Tucker ■ 

On the Language of Treaty — Improprieties 

instanced . 

Improper Conduct of the British Youth- 
Love of Knowledge — Solomon's Choice... — ■ 

Art of Flying — Letter from Daedalus— Re- 
marks on Modern Daedalists 

Letter from a Citizen in his Honey-moon — 
Tom Truelove's Courtship ■ ■ 

Erection of the Lion's Head— Remarks on 

Lions — on Petticoats 

On Criticism — Strada's Prolusion 

Matters of Dress not to be introduced in the 

Pulpit— Letter on Naked Breasts 

Happiness of living under the Protection of 


Information from a Lioness — Offer of an Out- 
riding Lion 

Translation of Strada's Prolusion 

On Female Gamesters 

Account of the Silent Club Pearce. 

On Female Undressing Addison. 

Sequel of Strada's Prolusion . ■ , 

On Seducers of Innocence— Letter to one 

from a Mother 

Letters from a University Lion— on Horns 

— Burlesque Lyric — Visit to the Lion 

Pleasures of Spring— M usic of Birds Tickell. 

The Attractions of Friendship and Benevo- 
lence Berkeley. 

The Court of Venus from Claudian Eutden. 

On the Demolition of Dunkirk Steele. 

On Anger, Revenge, Duelling . , 

Merit of the Speculative and Active Part of 

M ankind lianlette. 

On Habits of Sloth and Vice Stuff. 

Letters from a Young Man in Sickness — from 
the Husband of a Woman that is never 
in the Wrong— from the Wife of one of 
the Dumb Club — on Naked Breasts — — 

Duel between Sir Edward Sackville and Lord 


The Lion, how treated by the Town — Com- 
plaint of a Wife's Dress Addison. 

Best Way to bear Calumny , . 

Various Causes of Death — Country Bill of 

Mortality , 

Advantages of Illustrious Birth — how Conta- 
minated— Pride of Mr. Ironside 

On Regard for Posterity — ■ . 

History of Lions — Story of Androcles — — 

On Female Dress— Letter to Pope Clement 

on the Tucker 

On Wit— Life of the Author SteeU. 

Danger of Masquerades— Letter from a Dealer 

in Fig Leaves ■ 

Account of the Terrible Club 

Variely of Humour among the English 

Letters from a Swaggerer — concerning a 

Challenge-rAdvertisement . 

History of Lions— Story of Sir George Davis. 

Folly of Extravagance in New-married Per- 
sons ■ . 

History of Santon Barsisa ■ ■ 

Genius requisite to Excel in Dress Gay. 

On Paternal Affection— Story of a French 

Nobleman Steele. 

Letter from the Father of a young Rake ■ 

Comparative Merit of the two Sexes, an 

Allegory Additon. 

Pride not made for Man 

Lucifer's Account of a Masquerade 

Utility of Learning to the Female Sex 

History and Economy of Ants ■■ 

The same, concluded 

Proper Employment of Time; a Vision . . 

Story of Miss Betty, cured of 'her Vanity 

Conjectures of concealed Meanings under 

the History of the Ants . 

Proper Sense and N otion of Honour . ■ 

Humour of a Blunt Squire— Complaisance — 
. Storvof Schaoabac 

Letter from an Insulted Chaplain— Poem by 

Sir Thomas More — — 

On Translations— Speech of Pluto from Clau- 
dian Eutden . 

Miseries of Folly and Vice at the Head of a 

Family Additon. 

On Charity — The Guardian in search of the 

Philosopher's Stone ■ 

Story of Helim and Abdallah ■ . 

Character of a Mistress of a Family from the 
Book of Proverbs — Translation from Ana- 
crcon — Letter from Steele on the Exa- 
miner SteeU. 

Contemplation of the Heavenly Bodies, Sea- 
sons, &c ■ 

Extract from General Maxims of Trade ■ 

Good done by the Author's Speculrtions— 
Letter from a short Writer — in Defence 
of Bare Necks • ■ — 

On the Invention of Letters — Poem in Praise 

of Writing — — 

On laying out Gardens — Whimsical Form of 

Yews Pope. 

On the Manners of the Bath Visitors Steele. 

On Boyle's Lecture — Derham's Physico-The- 

Three Letters intended for the Guardian... Hughe*. 


Volume the First, 




IN the character of Guardian, it behoves me 
to do honour to such as have deserved well 
of society, and laid out worthy and manly 
qualities, in the service of the public. No 
man has more eminently distinguished himself 
this way, than Mr. Cadogan ; with a contempt 
of pleasure, rest, and ease, when called to the 
duties of your g" >rious profession, you have 
lived in a familiarity with dangers, and with a 
6trict eye upon the final purpose of the attempt, 
have wholly disregarded what should befall 
yourself in the prosecution; thus has life 
risen to you, as fast as you resigned it, and 
every new hour, for having so frankly lent the 
preceding moments to the cause of justice and 
of liberty, has come home to you, improved 
with honour: This happy distinction, which is 
»o very peculiar to you, with the addition of 
industry, vigilance, patience of labour, thrist, 
and hunger, in common with the meanest 
soldier, has made your present fortune unen- 
vied. For the public always reap greater ad- 

vantage from the example of successful merit, 
than the deserving man himself can possibly 
be possessed of; your country knows how 
eminently you excel in the several parts of 
military skill, whether in assigning the en- 
campment, accommodating the troops, leading 
to the charge, or pursuing the enemy: the re- 
treat being the only part of the profession 
which has not fallen within the experience of 
those, who learned their warfare under the 
duke of Marlborough. But the true and ho- 
nest purpose of this epistle is to desire a place 
in your friendship, without pretending to add 
any thing to your reputation, who, by your own 
gallant actions, have acquired that your name 
through all ages shall be read with honour, 
wherever mention shall be made of that illus- 
trious captain. 

I am, Sir, 

your most obedient, 

and most humble servant, 


Volume the Second. 



The greatest honour of human life, is to live 
well with men of merit ; and 1 hope you will 
pardon me the vanity of publishing, by this 
means, my happiness in being able to name 
you among my friends. The conversation of 

* Afteiwircis Karl of Batb. 

a gentleman, that has a refined taste of letters, 
and a disposition in which those letters found 
nothing to correct, but very much to exert, is 
a good fortune too uncommon to be enjoyed in 
silence. In others, the greatest business of 
learning is to weed the soil ; in you, it had 
nothing else to do, but to bring forth fruit. 
Affability, complacency, and generosity of heart, 



which are natural to you, wanted nothing from 
literature, but to refine and direct the appli- 
cation of them. After I have boasted I had 
Some share in your familiarity, I know not how 
to do yon the justice of celebrating you for the 
choice of an elegant and worthy acquaintance, 
with whom you live in the happy communi- 
cation of generous sentiment*, which contri- 
bute not only to \our own mutual entertain- 
ment and improvement, but to the honour 
and service of your country. Zeal for the 
public good is the characteristic of a man of 
honour, and a gentleman, and must take place 
of pleasures, profits, and all other private gra- 
tifications. Whoever wants this motive, is an 
open enemy, or an inglorious neuter to man- 
kind, in proportion to the misapplied advan- 
tages with which nature and fortune have 
blessed him. But you have a soul animated 

with nobler views, and know that the distinc- 
tion of wealth and plenteous circumstances, is 
a tax upon an honest mind, to endeavour, as 
much as the occurrences of life will give him 
leave, to guard the properties of others, and 
be vigilant for the good of his fellow-subjects. 
This generous inclination, no man possesses 
in a warmer degree than yourself; which, that 
heaven would reward with long possession o 
that reputation into which you have made so 
early an entrance, the reputation of a man of 
sense, a good citizen, and agreeable companion, 
a disinterested friend, and an unbiassed patriot, 
is the hearty prayer of, 
your most obliged, 

and most obedient, 

humble servant, 



' It is a justice which Mr. Ironside owes 
gentlemen who have sent him their assistances 
from time to time, in the carrying on of this 
work, to acknowledge that obligation, though 
at the same time he himself dwindles into the 
character of a mere publisher, by making the 
acknowledgment. But whether a man does it 
out of justice or gratitude, or any other virtu- 
ous reason or not, it is also a prudential act to 
take no more upon a man than he can bear. 
Two large a credit has made many a bankrupt, 
but taking even less than a man can answer 
with ease, is a sure fund for extending it when- 
ever his occasions require. All those papers 
which are distinguished by the mark of a 
Hand, were written by a gentleman who has 
obliged the world with productions too sublime 
to admit that the author of them should re- 
ceive any addition to his reputation, from such 
loose occasional thoughts as make up these 
little treatises; for which reason his name 
shall be concealed. Those which are marked 
with a Star, were composed by Mr. Budgell. 
That upon Dedications, with the Epistle of an 
Author to Himself, the Club of little Men, 
the Receipt to make an Epic Poem, the paper 
of the Gardens of Alcinous, and the Catalogue 
of Greens, that against Barbarity to Animals, 
and some others, have Mr. Pope for their 
utlior. Now I mention this gentleman, I 

take this opportunity* out of the Affection 
I have for his person, and respect to his merit, 
to let the world know, that he is now trans- 
lating Homer's Iliad by subscription. He ha* 
given good proof of his ability for the work, 
and the men of greatest wit and learning of 
this nation, of all parties, are, according to 
their different abilities, zealous encouragers, 
or solicitors for the work. 

But to my present purpose. The letter 
from Gnatho of the Cures performed by Flat- 
tery, and that of comparing Dress to Criticism, 
are Mr. Gay's. Mr. Martin, Mr. Philips, 
Mr. Tic^ell, Mr. Carey, Mr. Eusden, Mr. Ince, 
and M» Hughes, have obliged the town with 
entertaining discourses in these; and 
Mr. Berkeley, of Trinity College in Dublin, 
has embellished them with many excellent 
arguments in honour of religion and virtue. 
Mr. Pamell will I hope forgive me, that with- 
out his leave I mention, that I have seen his 
hand on the like occasion. There are some 
discourses of a less pleasing nature which re- 
late to the divisions amongst us, and such (lest 
any of these gentlemen should suffer from 
unjust suspicion,) I must impute to the right 
author of them, who is one Mr. Steele, of 
Langunnor, iu the county of Carmarthen, in 
South Wales. 


No. 1.] Thursday, March 12, 1713. 

1 lie quern requiris. 

He, whom you seek. 

Mart. Epig. ii. 1. 

HHHERE is no passion so universal, however 
J- diversified or disguised under different forms 
and appearances, as the vanity of being known 
to the rest of mankind, and communicating a 
man's parts, virtues, or qualifications, to the 
world : this is so strong upon men of great 
genius, that they have a restless fondness for 
satisfying the world in the mistakes they might 
possibly be under, with relation even to their 
physiognomy. Mr. Airs, that excellent pen- 
man, has taken care to affix his own image 
opposite to the title-page of his learned treatise, 
wherein he instructs the youthof this nation to 
arrive at a flourishing hand. The author of 
The Key to Interest, both simple and compound, 
containing practical rules plainly expressed in 
words at length for all rates of interest, and 
times of payment, for what time soever, makes 
up to us the misfortune of his living at Chester, 
by following the example of the above-men- 
tioned Airs, and coming up to town, over 
against his title-page, in a very becoming peri- 
wig, and a flowing robe or mantle, inclosed 
in a circle of foliages ; below his portraiture, 
for our farther satisfaction as to the age of that 
useful writer, is subscribed ' Johannes Ward 
de civitat. Ces trice, cetat. suce 58. An, Dom. 
1706.' The serene aspect of these writers, 
joined with the great encouragement I observe 
is given to another, or what is indeed to be 
suspected, in which he indulges himself, con- 
firmed me in the notion I have of the preva- 
lence of ambition this way. The author whom 
I hint at shall be nameless, but his counte- 
nance is communicated to the public in several 
views and aspects drawn by the most eminent 
painters, and forwarded by engravers, artists 

by way of mezzotinto, etchers, and the like. 
There was, 1 remember, some years ago, one 
John Gale, a fellow that played upon a pipe, 
and diverted the multitude by dancing in a 
ring they made about him, whose face became 
generally known, and the artists employed their 
skill in delineating his features, because every 
man was a judge of the similitude of them. 
There is little else, than what this John Gale 
arrived at, in the advantages men enjoy from 
common fame ; yet do I fear it has always a 
part in moving us to exert ourselves in such 
things as ought to derive their beginnings from 
nobler considerations. But I think it is no 
great matter to the public what is the incentive 
which makes men bestow time in their service, 
provided there be any thing useful in what 
they produce ; I shall proceed therefore to give 
an account of my intended labours, not without 
some hope of having my vanity, at the end of 
them, indulged in the sort above-mentioned. 

I should not have assumed the title of Guar- 
dian, had I not maturely considered, that th« 
qualities necessary for doing the duties of that 
character, proceed from the integrity of the 
mind more than the excellence of the under- 
standing. The former of these qualifications 
it is in the power of every man to arrive at; 
and the more he endeavours that way, the less 
will he want the advantages of the latter ; to 
be faithful, to be honest, to be just, is what 
you will demand in the choice of your Guar- 
dian ; or if you find added to this, that he is 
pleasant, ingenious, and agreeable, there will 
overflow satisfactions which make for the or- 
nament, if not so immediately to the use of 
your life. As to the diverting part of this paper, 
by what assistance I shall be capacitated for 
that, as well as what proofs I have given of my 
behaviour as to integrity in former life, will 
appear from my history to be delivered in 


[No. 2. 

ensuing discourse*. The main purpose of the 
work shall he, to protect the modest, the in- 
dustrious ; to celebrate the wise, the valiant ; 
to encourage the good, the pious ; to confront 
the impudent, the idle ; to contemn the vain, 
the cowardly; and to disappoint the wicked 
and profane. This work cannot he carried on 
but by preserving a strict regard, not only to 
the duties but civilities of life, with the utmost 
impartiality towards things and persons. The 
unjust application of the advantages of breeding 
ami fortune, is the source of all calamity, both 
public and private ; the correction therefore, 
or rather admonition, of a Guardian in all the 
occurrences of a various being, if given with a 
benevolent spirit, would certainly be of general 

in order to contribute as far as I am able to 
it, I shall publish in respective papers whatever 
1 think may conduce to the advancement of 
the conversation of gentlemen, the improve- 
ment of ladies, the wealth of traders, and the 
encouragement of artificers. The circumstance 
relating to those who excel in mechanics, shall 
be considered with particular application- It 
is not to be immediately conceived by such as 
have not turned themselves to reflections of 
that kind, that Providence, to enforce and en- 
dear the necessity of social life, has given one 
man's hands to another man's head, and the 
carpenter, the smith, the joiner, are as imme- 
diately necessary to the mathematician, as my 
amanuensis will be to me, to write much fairer 
than I can myself. I am so well convinced of 
this truth, that I shall have a particular regard 
to mechanics ; and to show my honour for 
them, I shall place at their head the painter. 
This gentleman is, as to the execution of his 
work, a mechanic ; but as to his conception, 
his spirit, and design, he is hardly below even 
the poet, in liberal art. It will be from these 
considerations useful to make the world see 
the affinity between all works which are bene- 
ficial to mankind is much nearer, than the il- 
liberal arrogance of scholars will at all times 
allow. But I am from experience convinced 
of the importance of mechanic heads, and 
shall therefore take them all into my care, from 
Rowley, who is improving the globes of the 
earth and heaven in Fleet-street, to Bat. Pigeon, 
the hair cutter in the Strand. 

But it will be objected upon what pretensions 
I take upon me to put in for the prochain ami, 
or nearest friend of all the world. How my 
head is accomplished for this employment to- 
wards the public, from the long exercise of it 
in a private capacity, will appear by reading 
me the two or three next days with diligence 
and attention. There is no other paper in being 
which tends to this purpose. They are most 
of them histories, or advices of public trans- 
actions ; but as those representations affect the 
passions of my readers, I shall sometimes take 

care, the day after a foreign mail, to give them 
an account of what it has brought. The parties 
amongst us are too violent to make it possible 
to pass them by without observation. As to 
these matters, I shall be impartial, though I 
cannot be neuter: I am, with relation to t hi- 
government of the church, a tory, with regard 
to the state, a whig. 

The charge of intelligence, the pain in com- 
piling and digesting my thoughts in proper 
style, and the like, oblige me-to value my paper 
a half-penny above all other half-sheets.* And 
all persons who have any thing to communicate 
to me, are desired to direct their letters (postage 
paid) to Nestor Ironside, Esq. at Mr. Tonson's in 
the Strand. I declare beforehand, that I will at 
no time be conversed with any other way than 
by letter: for as I am an ancient man, I shall 
find enough to do to give orders proper for 
their service, to whom I am by will of their 
parents Guardian, though I take that to be too 
narrow a scene for me to pass my whole life in. 
But I have got my wards so well off my bands. 
and they are so able to act for themselves, that 
I have little to do but give a hint, and all that 
I desire to be amended is altered accordingly. 

My design upon the whole is no less than to 
make the pulpit, the bar, and the stage, all 
act in concert in the care of piety, justice, and 
virtue; for I am past all the regards of this 
life, and have nothing to manage with any 
person or party, but to deliver myself as be- 
comes an old man with one foot in the grave, 
and one who thinks he is passing to eternity. 
All sorrows which can arrive at me are com- 
prehended in the sense of guilt and pain ; if I 
can keep clear of these two evils, I shall not be 
apprehensive of any other. Ambition, lust, 
envy, and revenge, are excrescences of the 
mind, which I have cut off long ago: but as 
they are excrescences which do not only de- 
form, but also torment those on whom they 
grow, I shall do all I can to persuade all others 
to take the same measures for their cure which 
I have. 

No. 2.] Friday, March 13, 1713. 

The readiest way to proceed in my grea N 
undertaking, is to explain who I am myself 
that promise to give the town a daily half- 
sheet : I shall therefore enter into my own 
history, without losing any time in preamble. 
I was bom in the year 16*42, at a lone house 
within half a mile of the town of Brentford, 
in the county of Middlesex; my parents were 
of ability to bestow Upon me a liberal educa- 
tion, and of a humour to think that a great 
happiness even in a fortune which was but 
just enough to keep m'e above want. In my 

Two-pence was the original price of tbia paper. 

No. 2.] 


sixteenth year I was admitted a commoner of 
Magdalen-hall in Oxford. It was one great 
advantage, among many more, which men 
educated at our universities do usually enjoy 
ahove others, that they often contract friend- 
ships there, which are of service to them in all 
the parts of their future life. This good for- 
tune happened to me ; for during the time of 
my being an under-graduate, I became inti- 
mately acquainted with Mr. Ambrose Lizard, 
who was a fellow-commoner of the neighbour- 
ing college. I have the honour to be well 
known to Mr. Josiah Pullen, of our hall above- 
mentioned ; and attribute the florid old age 
I now enjoy to my constant morning walks up 
Hedington-hill in his cheerful company. If 
the gentleman be still living, 1 hereby give 
him my humble service. But as I was going 
to say, J contracted in my early youth an in- 
timate friendship with young Mr. Lizard, of 
Northamptonshire. He was sent for a little 
before he was of bachelor's standing, to be 
married to Mrs. Jane Lizard, an heiress, whose 
father would have it so for the sake of the 
name. Mr. Ambrose knew nothing of it* till 
he came to Lizard-hall on Saturday night, saw 
the young lady at dinner the next day, and was 
married, by order of his father, sir Ambrose, 
between eleven and twelve the Tuesday follow- 
ing. Some years after, when my friend came to 
be sir Ambrose himself, and finding upon proof 
of her, that he had lighted upon a good wife, 
he gare the curate who joined their hands the 
parsonage of Welt, not far off Wellingborough. 
My friend was married in the year sixty-two, 
and every year following, for eighteen years to- 
gether, I left the college (except that year 
wherein I was chosen fellow of Lincoln,) and 
sojourned at sir Ambrose's for the months of 
June, July, and August. I remember very 
well that it was on the fourth of July, in the 
year 1674, that I was reading in an arbour to 
my friend, and stopt of a sudden, observing 
he did not attend. ' Lay by your book,' said 
he, * and ]*t us take a turn in the grass-walk, 
for I have Something to say to you.' After a 
silence for about forty yards, walking both of 
as with our eyes downward, one big to hear, 
the other to speak a matter of great importance, 
sir Ambrose expressed himself to this effect : 
* My good friend,' said he, ' you may have ob- 
served that from the first moment I was in 
your company at Mr. Willis's chambers, at 
University college, I ever after sought and 
courted you, that inclination towards you has 
improved, from similitude of manners, if I may 
so say, when I tell you I have not observed in 
any man a greater candour and simplicity of 
mind than in yourself. You are a man that 
are not inclined to launch into the world, but 
prefer security and ease, in a collegiate or single 
life, to going into the cares which necessarily 
attend a public character, or that of a master of 

a family. You see within, my son Marmaduke, 
my only child ; I have a thousand anxieties 
upon me concerning him, the greater part of 
which I would transfer to you, and when I do 
so, I would make it, in plain English, worth 
your while.' He would not let me speak, but 
proceeded to inform me, that he had laid the 
whole scheme of his affairs upon that foundation. 
As soon as we went into the house, he gave 
me a bill upon his goldsmith* in London, of 
two thousand pounds, and told me, with that 
he had purchased me, with all the talents I 
was master of, to be of his family, to educate 
his son, and to do all that should ever lie in my 
power for the service of him and his to my 
life's end, according to such powers, trusts, and 
instructions, as I should hereafter receive. 

The reader will here make many speeches 
for me, and without doubt suppose I told my 
friend he had retained me with a fortune to 
do that which I should have thought myself 
obliged to by friendship : but, as he was a 
prudent man, and acted upon rules of life, 
which were least liable to the variation of 
humour, time, or season, I was contented to 
be obliged by him his own way ; and be- 
lieved I should never enter into any alliance 
which should divert me from pursuing the 
interests of his family, of which 1 should here- 
after understand myself a member. • Sir Am- 
brose told me, he should lay no injunction 
upon me, which should be inconsistent with 
any inclination I might have hereafter to 
change my condition. All he meant was, in 
general, to insure his family from that pest of 
great estates, the mercenary men of business 
who act for them, and in a few years become 
creditors to their masters in greater sums than 
half the income of their lands amounts to, 
though it is visible all which gave rise to their 
wealth was a slight salary, for turning all the 
rest, both estate and credit of that estate, to 
the use of their principals. To this purpose 
we had a very long conference that evening, 
the chief point of which was, that his only 
child Marmaduke was from that hour under 
my care, and I was engaged to turn all my 
thoughts to the service of the child in par- 
ticular, and all the concerns of the family in 
general. My most excellent friend was so well 
satisfied with my behaviour, that he made me 
his executor, and guardian to his son. My own 
conduct during that time, and my manner of 
educating his son Marmaduke to manhood, and 
the interest I had in him to the time of his 
death also, with my present conduct towards 
the numerous descendants of my old friend, 
will make, possibly, a series of history of com- 
mon life, as useful as the relations of the more 
pompous passages in the lives of princes and 
statesmen. The widow of sir Ambrose, and 

» A banker at this time was called a goldsmith. 


. lea worthy relict of sir Marmaduke, 
iti living at tins time. 
I am to let the reader know, that his chief 
entertainment will arise from what passes at the 
tea- table of my lady Lizard. That lady is now 
in the forty-sixth year of her age, was married 
in the beginning of her sixteenth, is blessed with 
a numerous offspring of each sex, no less than 
four sons and five daughters. She was the mo- 
ther of this large family before she arrived at her 
thirtieth year: about which time she lost her 
husband, sir Marmaduke Lizard, a gentleman 
of great virtue and generosity. He left behind 
him an improved paternal estate of six thou- 
sand pounds a-year to his eldest son, and one 
year's revenue, in ready money, as a portion 
to each younger child. My lady's Christian 
name is Aspasia ; and as it may give a certain 
dignity to our style to mention her by that 
name, we beg leave at discretion to say lady 
Lizard, or Aspasia, according to the matter 
we shall treat of. When she shall be consult- 
ing about her cash, her rents, her household 
affairs, we will use the more familiar name; 
and when she is employed in the forming the 
minds and sentiments of her children, exerting 
herself in the acts of charity, or speaking of 
matters of religion or piety, for the elevation 
of style we will use the word Aspasia. Aspasia 
is a lady of great understanding and noble 
spirit. She has passed several years in widow- 
hood, with that abstinent enjoyment of life, 
which has done honour to her deceased hus- 
band, and devolved reputation upon her chil- 
dren. As she has both sons and daughters 
marriageable, she is visited by many on that 
account, but by many more for her own merit. 
As there is no circumstance in human life, 
which may not directly or indirectly concern 
a woman thus related, there will be abundant 
matter offer itself from passages in this family 
to supply my readers with diverting, and per- 
haps useful notices for their conduct in all the 
incidents of human life. Placing money on 
mortgages, in the funds, upon bottomry, and 
almost all other ways of improving the fortune 
of a family, are practised by my lady Lizard, 
with the best skill and advice. 

The members of this family, their cares, 
passions, interests, and diversions, shall be re- 
presented, from time to time, as news from 
the tea-table of so accomplished a woman as 
the intelligent and discreet lady Lizard. 

No. 3.] Saturday, March 11, J? 13. 

Qnicquld est iihid, quod scntlt, quod sapit, quod vnlt, 
quod vig< i, caeleste et dlvlniun eat, ob earaquc rem aster- 

iiniii mi in i . - • . -i. Cicero. 

Whatever be, which thinks, which understands, 
willed \\ll!% wbleh actS) H i^ something celestial and <U- 

ii iiy be eternal, 

I am diverted from the account 1 was giving 
• he town of my particular concerns* by casting 

[No. 3. 

my e*/c upon a treatise which J could not over- 
look without an inexcusable negligence, and 
want of concern for all the civil, as well as re- 
ligious interests of mankind. This piece has for 
its title, A Discourse of Free-thinking, occa- 
sioned by the rise and growth of a sect called 
Free-thinkers. The author very methodically 
enters upon his argument, and says, ' by free- 
thinking, I mean the use of the understanding 
in endeavouring to find out the meaning of 
any proposition whatsoever, in considering the 
nature of the evidence for or against, and in 
judging of it according to the seeming force 
or weakness of the evidence.' As soon as he 
has delivered this definition, from which one 
would expect he did not design to show a par- 
ticular inclination for or against any thing 
before he had considered it, he gives up all 
title to the character of a free-thinker, with 
the most apparent prejudice against a body of 
men, whom of all other a good man would be 
most careful not to violate, I mean men in 
holy orders. Persons who have devoted them- 
selves to the service of God, are venerable to 
all who fear him ; and it is a certain charac- 
teristic of a dissolute and ungoverned mind, to 
rail, or speak disrepectfully of them in general. 
It is certain, that in so great a crowd of men, 
some will intrude who are of tempers very un- 
becoming their function : but because ambition 
and avarice are sometimes lodged in that bo- 
som which ought to be the dwelling of sanctity 
and devotion, must this unreasonable author 
vilify the whole order? He has not taken the 
least care to disguise his being an enemy to the 
persons against whom he writes, nor any where 
granted that the institution of religious men 
to serve at the altar, and instruct such who 
are not as wise as himself, is at all necessary 
or desirable ; but proceeds, without the least 
apology, to undermine their credit, and frus- 
trate their labours: whatever clergymen, in 
disputes against each other, have unguardedly 
uttered, is here recorded in such a manner as 
to affect religion itself, by wresting concessions 
to its disadvantage from its own achers. If 
this be true, as sure any man tnat reads the 
discourse must allow it is, and if religion is 
the strongest tie of human society, in what 
manner are we to treat this our common enemy, 
who promotes the growth of such a sect as he 
calls free-thinkers ? He that should burn a 
a house, and justify the action by asserting he 
is a free agent, would be more excusable than 
this author in uttering what he has from the 
right of a free thinker. But there are a set of 
dry, joyless, doll fellows, who want capacities 
and talents to make a figure amongst mankind 
upon benevolent and generous principles, that 
think to surmount their own natural mean- 
ness, by laying offences in the way of such as 
make it their endeavour to excel upon the re- 
ceived maxims and honest arts of life. If it 

No. 3.1 


were possible to laugh at so melancholy an 
affair as what hazards salvation, it would be 
no unpleasant inquiry to ask, what satisfactions 
they reap, what extraordinary gratification of 
sense, or what delicious libertinism this sect 
of free-thinkers enjoy, after getting loose of 
the laws which confine the passions of other 
men ? Would it not be a matter of mirth to 
find, after all, that the heads of this growing 
sect are sober wretches, who prate whole 
evenings over coffee, and have not themselves 
fire enough to be any further debauchees, than 
merely in principle ? These sages of iniquity 
are, it seems, themselves only speculatively 
wicked, and are contented that all the aban- 
doned young men of the age are kept safe from 
reflection by dabbling in their rhapsodies, 
without tasting the pleasures for which their 
doctrines leave them unaccountable. Thus 
do heavy mortals, only to gratify a dry pride of 
heart, give up the interests of another world, 
without enlarging their gratifications in this : 
but it is certain there are a sort of men that 
can puzzle truth, but cannot enjoy the satis- 
faction of it. This same free-thinker is a crea- 
ture unacquainted with the emotions, which 
possess great minds when they are turned for 
religion, and it is apparent that he is untouched 
with any such sensation as the rapture of de- 
votion. Whatever one of these scorners may 
think, they certainly want parts to be devout ; 
and a sense of piety towards heaven, as well as 
the sense of any thing else, is lively and warm 
in proportion to the faculties of the head and 
heart. This gentleman may be assured he has 
not a taste for what he pretends to decry, and 
the poor man is certainly more a blockhead 
than an atheist. I must repeat, that he wants 
capacity to relish what true piety is ; and he 
is as capable of writing an heroic poem, as 
making a fervent prayer. When men are thus 
low and narrow in their apprehensions of 
things, and at the same time vain, they are 
naturally led to think every thing they do not 
understand, not to be understood. Their con- 
tradiction to what is urged by others, is a 
necessary consequence of their incapacity to 
receive it. The atheistical fellows who ap- 
peared the last age did not serve the devil for 
nought, but revelled in excesses suitable to 
their principles ; while in these unhappy days 
mischief is done for mischiefs sake. These 
free-thinkers, who lead the lives of recluse stu- 
dents, for no other purpose but to disturb the 
sentiments of other men, put me in mind of 
the monstrous recreation of those late wild 
youths, who, without provocation, had a wan- 
tonness in stabbing and defacing those they 
met with. When such writers as this, who has 
no spirit but that of malice, pretend to inform 
the age, mohocks and cut throats may well 
Set up for wits and men of pleasure. 

It-will be perhaps expected, that I should 

produce some instances of the ill intention of 
this free-thinker, to support the treatment J 
here give him. In his fifty-second page he says, 

' Secondly, The priests throughout the world 
differ about scriptures, and the authority of 
scriptures. The Bramins have a book of scrip- 
ture called the Shaster. The Persees have their 
Zundavastaw. The Bonzes of China have books 
written by the disciples of Fo-he, whom they 
call the ' God and Saviour of the world, who 
was born to teach the way of salvation, and 
to give satisfaction for all men's sins.' The 
Talapoins of Siam have a book of scripture 
written by Sommonocodom, who, the Siamese 
say, ■ was born of a virgin, and was the God 
expected by the universe.' The Dervises have 
their Alcoran.' 

I believe there is no one will dispute the 
author's great impartiality in setting down the 
accounts of these different religions. And I 
think it is pretty evident he delivers the matter 
with an air that betrays that the history of 
1 one born of a virgin' has as much authority 
with him from St. Sommonocodom as from 
St. Matthew, Thus he treats revelation. Then 
as to philosophy, he tells you, p. 136, ' Cicero 
produces this as an instance of a probable 
opinion, that they who study philosophy do 
not believe there are any Gods ;' and then, 
from consideration of various notions, he af- 
firms Tully concludes, * that there can be no- 
thing after death.' 

As to what he misrepresents of Tully, the 
short sentence on the head of this paper is 
enough to oppose ; but who can have patience 
to reflect upon the assemblage of impostures, 
among which our author places the religion 
of his country ? As for my part, I cannot see 
any possible interpretation to give this work, 
but a design to subvert and ridicule the autho- 
rity of scripture. The peace and tranquillity 
of the nation, and regards even above those, 
are so much concerned in this matter, that it 
is difficult to express sufficient sorrow for the 
offender, or indignation against him. But if 
ever man deserved to be denied the common 
benefits of air and water, it is the author of 
A Discourse of Free-thinking. 

No. 4.] Monday, March 16, 1713. 

It matters not how false or forc'd, 
So the best things be said o' th' worst ; 
It goes for nothing when 'tis said, 
Only the arrow's drawn to th' head, 
Whether it be a swan or goose 
They "level at : so shepherds use 
To set the same mark on the hip 
Both of their sound and rotten sheep. 


Though most things which are wrong in 
their own nature are at once confessed and 
absolved in that single word Custom ; yet there 
are some, which as they have a dangerous 



[No. 4 

tcmk'iin, a thinking man will the less excuse 
on that very account. Among these 1 cannot 
hut reckon the common practice of dedications, 
which is of so much the worse consequence, 
tfi it js generally used by the people of polite- 
ness, ami whom a learned education for the 
most part ought to have inspired with nobler 
and juster sentiments. This prostitution of 
praise is not only a deceit upon the gross of 
mankind, who take their notion of characters 
from the learned ; but also the better sort must 
by this means lose some part at least of that 
desire of fame which is the incentive to gene- 
rous actions, when they find it promiscuously 
bestowed on the meritorious and undeserving : 
nay, the author himself, let him he supposed 
to have ever so true a value for the patron, 
can find no terms to express it, but what have 
been already used, and rendered suspected by 
flatterers. Even truth itself in a dedication 
is like an honest man in a disguise or vizor- 
mask, and will appear a cheat by being dressed 
so like one. Though the merit of the person 
is beyond dispute, 1 see no reason that because 
one man is eminent, therefore another has a 
right to be impertinent, and throw praises in 
his face. 'Tis just the reverse of the practice 
of the ancient Romans, when a person was ad- 
vanced to triumph for his services. As they 
hired people to rail at him in that circum- 
stance to make him as humble as they could, 
we have fellows to flatter him, and make him 
as proud as they can. Supposing the writer 
not to be mercenary, yet the great man is no 
more in reason obliged to thank him for his 
picture in a dedication, than to thank a painter 
for that on a sign-post ; except it be a less in- 
jury to touch the most sacred part of him, his 
character, than to make free with his counte- 
nance only. 1 should think nothing justified 
me in this point, but the patron's permission 
beforehand, that I should draw him, as like as 
I could ; whereas most authors proceed in this 
affair just as a dauber I have heard of, who, 
not being able to draw portraits after the life, 
was used to paint faces at random, and look 
out afterwards for people whom he might per- 
suade to be like them. To express my notion 
of the thing in a word : to say more to a man 
than one thinks, with a prospect of interest, 
is dishonest ; and without it, foolish. And 
whoever has had success in such an undertak- 
ing, must of necessity, at once think himself 
in his heart a knave for having done it, and 
his patron a fool for having believed it. 

/ have sometimes been entertained with con- 
sidering dedications in no very common light. 
By observing what qualifies our wi iters think 
it will he most pleasing to others to compli- 
ment them with, one may form some judgment 
which arc most so to themselves ; and in con- 
sequence, what sort of people they are. With- 
out this view one can read very few dedications 

but will give us cause to wonder how such 
things came to be said at all, or how they 
were said to such persons? I have known a 
hero complimented upon the decent majesty 
and state he assumed after victory, and a no- 
bleman of a different character applauded for 
his condescension to inferiors. This would 
have seemed very strange to me, but that I 
happened to know the authors. He who made 
the first compliment was a lofty gentleman, 
whose air and gait discovered when he had 
published a new book; and the other tippled 
every night with the fellows who laboured at 
the press while his own writings were work- 
ing off. It is observable of the female poets, 
and ladies dedicatory, that here (as elsewhere) 
they far exceed us in any strain or rant. As 
beauty is the thing that sex are piqued upon, 
they speak of it generally in a more elevated 
style than is used by the men. They adore in 
the same manner as they would be adored. So 
when the authoress of a famous modern ro- 
mance* begs a young nobleman's permission 
to pay him her ' kneeling adorations,' I am 
far from censuring the expression, as some 
critics would do, as deficient in grammar or 
sense ; but I reflect, that adorations paid in 
that posture are what a lady might expect her- 
self, and my wonder immediately ceases. These, 
when they flatter most, do but as they would 
be done unto: for, as none are so much con- 
cerned at being injured by calumnies as they 
who are readiest to cast them upon their neigh- 
bours, so it is certain none are so guilty of 
flattery to others as those who most ardently 
desire it themselves. 

What led me into these thoughts was a de- 
dication 1 happened upon this morning. The 
reader must understand that I treat the least 
instances or remains of ingenuity with respect, 
in what places soever found, or under what- 
ever circumstances of disadvantage. From 
this love to letters I have been so happy in 
my searches after knowledge, that I have 
found invalued repositories of learning in the 
lining of band-boxes. I look upon these paste- 
board edifices, adorned with the fragments of 
the ingenious, with the same veneration as 
antiquaries upon ruined buildings, whose walls 
preserve divers inscriptions and names, which 
are no where else to be found in the world. 
This morning, when one of the lady Lizard's 
daughters was looking over some hoods and 
ribands, brought by her tire-woman, with 
great care and diligence, I employed no less 
in examining the box which contained them; 
it was lined with certain scenes of a tragedy, 
written (as appeared by part of the title there 
extant) by one of the fair sex. What was 
most legible was the dedication ; which, by 

Mis. Mauley, authoress of the Memoirs from tbe Nc\t inti.-. 

No. 4.] 


reason of the largeness of the characters, was 
least defaced by those gothic ornaments of 
flourishes and foliage, wherewith the com- 
pilers of these sort of structures do often in- 
dustriously obscure the works of the learned. 
As much of it as I could read with any ease, 
I shall communicate to the reader, as follows. 

* *** Though it is a kind of profanation to 
approach your grace with so poor an offering, 
yet when I reflect how acceptable a sacrifice 
of first-fruits was to Heaven, in the earliest 
and purest ages of religion, that they were 
honoured with solemn feasts, and consecrated 
to altars by a divine command, *** upon that 
consideration, as an argument of particular 
zeal, I dedicate***. It is impossible to be- 
hold you without adoring ; yet dazzled and 
awed by the glory that surrounds you, men 
feel a sacred power, that refines their flames, 
and renders them pure as those we ought to 
offer to the Deity. *** The shrine is worthy 
the divinity that inhabits it. In your grace 
we see what woman was before she fell, how 
nearly allied to the purity and perfection of 
angels. And we adore and bless the glo- 
rious work !' 

Undoubtedly these and other periods of this 
most pious dedication, could not but convince 
the duchess of what the eloquent authoress 
assures her at the end, that she was her ser- 
vant with most ardent devotion. I think this 
a pattern of a new sort of style, not yet taken 
notice of by the critics, which is above the 
sublime, and may be called the celestial ; that 
is, when the most sacred phrases appropriated 
to the honour of the Deity are applied to a 
mortal of good quality. As I am naturally 
emulous, I cannot but endeavour, in imitation 
of tins lady, to be the inventor, or, at least, the 
first producer of a kind of dedication, very 
different from hers and most others, since it 
has not a word but what the author religiously 
thinks in it. It may serve for almost any book, 
either prose or verse, that has been, is, or shall 
be published, and might run in this manner. 

The Author to himself. 
These labours, upon many considerations, 
so properly belong to none as to you. First, 
as it was your most earnest desire alone that 
could prevail upon me to make them public. 
Then as I am secure (from that constant in- 
dulgence you have ever shown to all which is 
mine) that no man will so readily take them 
into protection, or so zealously defend them. 
Moreover, there is none can so soon discover 
the beauties ; and there are some parts which, 
it is possible, few besides yourself are capable 
of understanding. Sir, the honour, affection, 
and value I have for you are beyond expression ; 
as great, I am sure, or greater, than any man 

else can bear you. As for any defects which 
others may pretend to discover in you, I do 
faithfully declare I was never able to perceive 
them ; and doubt not but those persons are 
actuated purely by a spirit of malice or envy, 
the inseparable attendants on shining merit 
and parts, such as I have always esteemed 
yours to be. It may perhaps be looked upon 
as a kind of violence to modesty, to say this to 
you in public; but you may believe me, it is 
no more than I have a thousand times thought 
of you in private. Might I follow the impulse 
of my soul, there is no subject I could launch 
into with more pleasure than your panegyric. 
But, since something is due to modesty, let 
me conclude by telling you, that there is no- 
thing so much I desire as to know you more 
thoroughly than I have yet the happiness of 
doing. I may then hope to be capable to do 
you some real service ; but till then can only 
assure you, that I shall continue to be, as I 
am more than any man alive, 
Dearest Sir, 

Your affectionate friend, and 
the greatest of your admirers. 

No. 5.] Tuesday, March 17, 1713. 

Laudantur simili prole puerperae. 

Hor. Lib. 4. Od. v. 23. 

The mother's virtues in the daughters shine. 

I have, in my second paper, mentioned the 
family into which I was retained by the friend 
of my youth ; and given the reader to under- 
stand, that my obligations to it are such as 
might well naturalize me into the interests of 
it. They have, indeed, had their deserved 
effect, and if it were possible fur a man who 
has never entered into the state of marriage 
to know the instincts of a kind father to an 
honourable and numerous house, I may say I 
have done it. I do not know but my regards, 
in some considerations, have been more useful 
than those of a father, and as I wanted all that 
tenderness, which is the bias of inclination in 
men towards their own offspring, I have had a 
greater command of reason when I, was to 
judge of what concerned my wards, and con- 
sequently was not prompted, by my partiality 
and fondness towards their persons, to trans- 
gress against their interests. 

As the female part of a family is the more 
constant and immediate object of care and 
protection, and the more liable to misfortune 
or dishonour, as being in themselves more 
sensible of the former, and, from custom and 
opinion, for less offences more exposed to the 
latter; I shall begin with the more delicate 
part of my guardianship, the women of the 
family of Lizard. The ancient and religious 
lady, the dowager of my friend sir Ambrose, 
has for some time estranged herself from eon« 



[No. 5, 

.mi, and admits only of the visits of her 
own family. The observation, that old people 
remember best those things which entered into 
i heir thoughts when their memories were in 
their full strength and vigour, is very remark- 
ably exemplified in this good lady and myself 
when we are in conversation ; I choose, indeed, 
to go thiiher, to divert any anxiety or weariness 
which at any time I find grow upon me from 
any present business or care. It is said, that 
a little mirth and diversion are what recreate 
the spirits upon those occasions: but there is 
a kind of sorrow from which I draw a consola- 
tion that strengthens my faculties and enlarges 
my mind beyond any thing that can flow from 
merriment. When we meet, we soon get over 
any occurrence which passed the day before, 
and are in a moment hurried back to those 
days which only we call good ones ; the pas- 
sages of the times when we were in fashion, 
with the countenances, behaviour, and jollity, so 
much, forsooth, above what any appear in now, 
are present to our imaginations, and almost to 
our very eyes. This conversation revives to us 
the memory of a friend, that was more than a 
brother to me ; of a husband that was dearer 
than life to her: discourses about that dear 
and worthy man generally send her to her 
closet, and me to the despatch of some necessary 
business which regards the remains, I would 
say the numerous descendants of my generous 
friend. I am got, I know not how, out of what 
I was going say of this lady ; which was, that 
she is far gone towards a better world ; and 
I mention her (only with res.pect to this) as 
she is the object of veneration to those who are 
derived from her: whose behaviour towards 
her may be an example to others, and make 
the generality of young people apprehend, that 
when the ancient are past all offices of life, it 
is then the young are to exert themselves in 
their most laudable duties towards them. 

The widow of sir Marmaduke is to be con- 
sidered in a very different view. My lady is 
not in the shining bloom of life, but at those 
years, wherein the gratifications of an ample 
fortune, those of pomp and equipage, of being 
much esteemed, much visited, and generally 
admired, are usually more strongly pursued 
than in younger days. In this condition she 
might very well add the pleasures of courtship, 
and the grateful persecution of being followed 
by a crowd of lovers ; but she is an excellent 
mother and great economist ; which considera- 
tions, joined with the pleasure of living her 
own way, preserve her against the intrusion 
of love. I will not say that my lady has not a 
secret vanity in being still a fine woman, and 
neglecting those addresses, to w huh perhaps we 

in part owe her constancy in that her neglect. 

Her daughter Jane, ber eldest child of that 
sex, is in the twenty-third year of her age, a 
lady who forms herself after the pattern of her 

mother; but in my judgment, a. she happens 
to be extremely like her, she sometimes makes 
her court unskilfully, in affecting that likeneSfl 
in her very mien, which gives the mother an 
uneasy sense, that Mrs. Jane really is what her 
parent has a mind to continue to be; but it is 
possible I am too observing in this particular, 
and this might be overlooked iu them both, in 
respect to greater circumstances : for Mrs. Jane 
is the right hand of her mother; it is her Study 
and constant endeavour to assist her in the 
management of her household, to keep all idle 
whispers from her, and discourage them before 
they can come at her from any other hand ; to 
inforce every thing that makes for the merir 
of her brothers and sisters towards her, as well 
as the diligence and cheerfulness of her servants. 
It is by Mrs. Jane's management that the whole 
family is governed, neither by love nor fear, 
but a certain reverence which :s composed of 
both. Mrs. Jane is what one would call a per- 
fect good young woman; but neither strict 
piety, diligence in domestic affairs, or any other 
avocation, have preserved her against love, 
which she bears to a young gentleman of great 
expectation, but small fortune; at the same 
time that men of very great estates ask her of 
her mother. My lady tells her that prudence 
must give way to passion : so that Mrs. Jane, 
if I cannot accommodate the matter, must 
conquer more than one passion, and out of 
prudence banish the man she loves, and marry 
the man she hates. 

The next daughter is Mrs. Annabella, who 
has a very lively w it, a great deal of good sense, 
is very pretty, but gives me much trouble for 
her from a certain dishonest cunning 1 know 
in her ; she can seem blind and careless, and 
full of herself only, and entertain with twenty 
affected vanities ; whilst she is observing all 
the company, laying up store for ridicule, and, 
in a word, is selfish and interested under all 
the agreeable qualities in the world. Alas, 
what shall I do with this girl ! 

Mrs. Cornelia passes away her time very 
much in reading, and that with so great ai 
attention, that it gives her the air of a student, 
and has an ill effect upon her, as she is a fine 
young woman ; the giddy part of the sex will 
have it she is in love; none will aliow that 
she affects so much being alone, but for want 
of particular company. I have railed at ro- 
mances before her, for fear of her falling into 
those deep studies : she has fallen in with my 
humour that way for the time, but 1 know 
not how, my imprudent prohibition has, it 
seems, only excited her curiosity ; and I am 
afraid she is better read than I know of, for 
she said of a glass of water in which she was 
going to wash her hands after dinner, dipping 
her lingers with a pretty lovely air, ' It is 
chrystalline.' I shall examine farther, and 
wait for clearer proofs. 

No. 5.J 


Mrs. Betty is (I cannot by what means or 
methods imagine) grown mightily acquainted 
with what passes in the town ; she knows all 
that matter of my lord such-a-one's leading 
my lady such-a-one out from the play; she is 
prodigiously acquainted, all of a sudden, with 
the world, and asked her sister Jane the other 
day in an argument, ' Dear sister, how should 
you know any thing, that hear nothing but 
what we do in our own family ?' I do not much 
like her maid. 

Mrs. Mary, the youngest daughter, whom 
they rally and call Mrs. Ironside, because I have 
named her the Sparkler, is the very quint- 
essence of good-nature and generosity; she is 
the perfect picture of her grandfather; and if 
one can imagine all good qualities which adorn 
human life become feminine, the seeds, nay, 
the blossom of them, are apparent in Mrs. Mary. 
It is a weakness 1 cannot get over, (for how ri- 
diculous is a regard to the bodily perfections 
of a man who is dead) but I cannot resist my 
partiality to this child, for being so like her 
grandfather; how often have I turned from 
her, to hide the melting of my heart when she 
has been talking to me! I am sure the child 
has no skill in it, for artifice could not dwell 
under that visage; but if I am absent a day 
from the family, she is sure to be at my lodging 
the next morning to know what is the matter. 

At the head of these children, who have very 
plentiful fortunes, provided they marry with 
mine and their mother's consent, is my lady 
Lizard; who, you cannot doubt, is very well 
visited. Sir William Oger, and his son almost 
at age, are frequently at our house on a double 
consideration. The knight is willing, (for so 
he very gallantly expresses himself) to marry 
the mother, or he will consent, whether that 
be so or not, that his son Oliver shall take any 
one of the daughters Noll likes best. 

Mr. Rigburt, of the same county, who gives 
in his estate much larger, and his family more 
ancient, offers to deal with us for two daughters. 

Sir Harry Pandolf has writ word from his 
seat in the country, that he also is much in- 
clined to an alliance with the Lizards, which 
he has declared in the following letter to my 
lady • she showed it me this morning. 

* I have heard your daughters very well spoken 
of: and though I have very great offers in my 
own neighbourhood, and heard the small-pox is 
very rife at London, I will send my eldest son 
to see them, provided that by your ladyship's 
answer, and your liking of the rent-roll which I 
send herewith, your ladyship assures me he 
shall have one of them, for I do not think to 
have my son refused by any woman ; and so, 
madam, I conclude, 

e Your most humble servant, 


No. 6.] Wednesday, March 18, 17 13. 

I have despatched my young women, and 
the town has them among them; it is neces- 
sary for the elucidation of my future discourses, 
which I desire may be denominated, as they 
are the precepts of a Guardian, Mr. Ironside's 
Precautions; I say it is, after what has been 
already declared, in the next place necessary to 
give an account of the males of this worthy 
family, whose annals I am writing. The affairs 
of women being chiefly domestic, and not made 
up of so many circumstances as the duties of 
men are, I fear I cannot despatch the account 
of the males under my care, in so few words as 
I did the explanation which regarded my wo- 

Sir Harry Lizard, of the county of Northamp- 
ton, son and heir of the late sir Marmaduke, 
is now entered upon the twenty-sixth year of 
his age, and is now at his seat in the country. 

The estate at present in his hands is above 
three thousand a-year, after payment of taxes 
and all necessary charges whatsoever. He is 
a man of good understanding, but not at all 
what is usually called a man of shining parts. 
His virtues are much greater than accomplish- 
ments, as to his conversation. But when you 
come to consider his conduct with relation to 
his manners and fortune, it would be a very 
great injury not to allow him [to be] a very fine 
gentleman. It has been carefully provided in 
his education, that he should be very ready at 
calculations. This gives him a quick alarm 
inwardly upon all undertakings; and in a much 
shorter time than is usual with men who are 
not versed in business, he is master of the ques- 
tion before him, and can instantly inform him- 
self with great exactness in the matter of profit 
or loss that shall arise from anything proposed 
to him. The same capacity, joined to an honest 
nature, makes him very just to other men, as 
well as to himself. His payments are very punc- 
tual, and I dare answer he never did, or ever 
will, undertake any piece of building, or any 
ornamental improvement of his house, garden, 
park, or lands, before the money is in his own 
pocket wherewith he is to pay for such under- 
taking. He is too good to purchase labourers 
or artificers (as by this means he certainly 
could) at an under rate; but he has by this 
means what I think he deserves from his su- 
perior prudence, the choice of all who are most 
knowing and able to serve him. With his ready 
money, the builder, mason, and carpenter, are 
enabled to make their market of gentlemen in 
his neighbourhood, who inconsiderately employ 
them ; and often pay their undertakers by sale 
of some of their land : whereas, were the lands 
on which those improvements are made, sold 
to the artificers, the buildings would be rated 
as lumber in the purchase. Sir Harry has for 
ever a year's income, to extend his charity, 



[No. 6. 

serve his pleasures, or resale his friends. His 
servants, hit cattle, his poods, speak their mas- 
ter a rich man. Those about his person, as his 
bailiff, the groom of his ehamber, and his but- 
ler, bave a cheerful, not a gay air: the servants 
belov\ them seem to live in plenty, but not in 
wantonness. As sir Henry is a young man, and 
of an active disposition, his best figure is on 
horse- back. But before I speak of that, I 
should acquaint you, that during his infancy 
all the young gentlemen of the neighbourhood 
were welcome to a part of the house, which was 
called the school; where, at the charge of the 
family, there was a grammar-master, a plain 
sober man, maintained (with a salary, besides 
his diet, of fifty pounds a-year) to instruct all 
such children of gentlemen or lower people, as 
would partake of his education. As they grew 
up, they were allowed to ride out with him 
upon his horses. There were always ten or twelve 
for the saddle in readiness to attend him and 
his favourites, in the choice of whom he showed 
a good disposition, and distributed his kindness 
among them by turns, with great good-nature. 
All horses, both for the saddle and swift draught, 
were very well bitted, and a skilful rider, with 
a riding-house, wherein he (the riding master) 
commanded, had it in orders to teach any gen- 
tleman's son of the county that would please 
to learn that exercise. We found our account 
in this proceeding, as well in real profit, as in 
esteem and power in the country; for as the 
whole shire is now possessed by gentlemen who 
owe sir Harry a part of education which they 
all value themselves upon, (their horseman- 
ship) they prefer his horses to all others, and 
it is ten per cent, in the price of a steed, which 
appears to come out of his riding-house. 

By this means it is, that sir Harry, as I was 
going to say, makes the best figure on horse- 
back ; for his usual hours of being in the field 
are well known ; and at those seasons the neigh- 
bouring gentlemen, his friends and school- 
fellows, take a pleasure in giving him their 
company, with their servants well behaved, 
and horses well commanded. 

I cannot enough applaud sir Harry for a par- 
ticular care in his horses. He not only bitts all 
which are ridden, but also all which are for 
the coach or swift draught, for grace adds 
mightily to the price of strength ; and he 
finds his account in it at all markets, more 
especially for the coach or troop horses, of 
which that county produces the most strong 
and ostentatious. To keep up a breed for any 
use whatever, he gives plates for the best per- 
forming horse in every way in which that animal 
can be serviceable- There is such a prize for 
him that trots best, such for the best walker, 
such for the best galloper, such for the best 
pacer; then for him who draws most in such 
a time to such a place, then to him that car- 
ries best such a load on his back. He delights 

in this, and has an admirable fancy in the dress 
of the riders; some admired country girl is to 
hold the prize, her lovers to trot, and not to 
mend their pace into a gallop when thev are 
out-trotted by a rival; some known country 
wit to come upon the best pacer; these, and 
the like little joyful arts, gain him the love of 
all who do not know his worth, and the esteem 
of all who do. Sir Harry is no friend to the 
race-horse; he is of opinion it is inhuman, 
that animals should be put upon their utmost 
strength and mettle for our diversion only. 
However, not to be particular, he puts in for 
the queen's plate every year, with orders to his 
rider never to win or be distanced ; and, like 
a good country gentleman, says, it is a fault 
in all ministries, that they encourage no kind 
of horses hut those which are swift. 

As I write lives, I dwell upon small matters, 
being of opinion with Plutarch, that little cir- 
cumstances show the real man better than 
things of greater moment. But good economy 
is the characteristic of the Lizards. I remem- 
ber a circumstance about six years ago, that 
gave me hopes he would one time or other make 
a figure in parliament ; for he is a landed man, 
and considers his interest, though he is such, 
to be impaired or promoted according to the 
state of trade. When he was but twenty years 
old, I took an opportunity in his presence, to 
ask an intelligent woollen-draper, what he gave 
for his shop [at] the corner of Change-alley? 
The shop is, I believe, fourteen feet long, and 
eight broad. I was answered, Ninety pounds 
a year. I took no notice, but the thought de- 
scended into the breast of sir Harry, and I saw 
on his table the next morning, a computation 
of the value of land in an island, consisting of 
so many miles, with so many good ports; the 
value of each part of the said island, as it lay 
to such ports, and produced such commodities. 
The whole of his working was to know why 
so few yards near the Change, was so much 
better than so many acres in Northampton- 
shire ; and what those acres in Northampton- 
shire would be worth, were there no trade at 
all in this island. 

It makes my heart ache, when I think of this 
young man, and consider upon what plain 
maxims, and in what ordinary methods men of 
estate may do good wherever they are seated, 
that so many should he what they are! It is 
certain, that the arts which purchase wealth or 
fame, will maintain them ; and I attribute the 
splendour and long continuance of this family, 
to the felicity of having the genius of the 
founder of it run through all his male line. 
Old sir Harry, the greatgrandfather of this 
gentleman, has written in his own hand upon 
all the deeds which he ever signed, in the hu- 
mour of that sententious age, this sentence, 
' There are four good mothers, of whom are 
often born four unhappy daughters; truth be- 

No. 7-1 



gets hatred, happiness pride, security danger, 
and familiarity contempt.' 

No 7.] Thursday, March 19, 1713. 

Vita ci:ato 

Propcrat cnrsu 

Senec. Trag. 

With speedy step life posts away. 

I this morning did myself the honour to visit 
lady Lizard, and took my chair at the tea-table, 
at the upper end of which that graceful woman, 
with her daughters about her, appeared to me 
with greater dignity than ever any figure, either 
of Venus attended by the graces, Diana with 
her nymphs, or any other celestial who owes 
her being to poetry. 

The discourse we had there, none being pre- 
sent but our own family, consisted of private 
matters, which tended to the establishment of 
these young ladies in the world. My lady, I 
observed, had a mind to make mention of the 
proposal to Mrs. Jane, of which she is very 
fond, and I as much avoided, as heing equally 
against it; but it is by no means proper the 
young ladies should observe we ever dissent ; 
therefore I turned the discourse, by saying, ' it 
was time enough to think of marrying a young 
lady, who was but three-and-twenty, ten years 
hence.' The whole table was alarmed at the 
assertion, and the Sparkler scalded her fingers, 
by leaning suddenly forward to look in my 
face: but my business at present was to make 
my court to the mother; therefore, without 
regarding the resentment in the looks of the 
children, ' Madam,' said I, * there is a petulant 
and hasty manner practised in this age, in hur- 
rying away the life of woman, and confining 
the grace and principal action of it to those 
years wherein reason and discretion are most 
feeble, humour and passion most powerful. 
From the time a young woman of quality has 
first appeared in the drawing-room, raised a 
whisper and curiosity of the men about her, 
had her health drank in gay companies, and 
distinguished at public assemblies : I say, ma- 
dam, if within three or four years of her first 
appearance in town, she is not disposed of, 
her beauty is grown familiar, her eyes are dis- 
armed, and we seldom after bear her men- 
tioned but with indifference. What doubles 
my grief on this occasion is, that the more 
discreetly the lady behaves herself, the sooner 
is her glory extinguished. Now, madam, if 
merit had a greater weight in our thoughts, 
when we form to ourselves agreeable charac- 
ters of women, men would think, in making 
their choices, of such as would take care of, as 
well as supply children for, the nursery. It 
was npt thus in the illustrious days of good 
queen Elizabeth. I was this morning turning 
over a folio, called, The Complete Ambassador, 
consisting chiefly of letters from lord Burleigh, 

earl of Leicester, and sir Thomas Smith. Sir 
Thomas writes a letter to sir Francis Walsing- 
ham, full of learned gallantry, wherein you 
may observe he promises himself the French 
king's brother (who it seems was but a cold 
lover) would be quickened by seeing the queen 
in person, who was then in the thirty-ninth 
year of her age, A certain sobriety in thoughts, 
words, and action, which was the praise of that 
age, kept the fire of love alive; and it burnt 
so equally, that it warmed and preserved, with- 
out tormenting and consuming our beings. 
The letter I mention is as follows : 

" To the Right Worshipful Mr. Francis TVaU 
singham, Embassador , resident in France. 

" SYR, 
" I am sorry that so good a matter should, 
upon so nice a point, be deferred. We may say 
that the lover will do little, if he will not take 
the pains once "to see his love; but she must 
first say yea, before he see her, or she him : 
twenty ways might be devised why he might 
come over, and be welcome, and possibly do 
more in an hour than he may in two years. 
* Cupido ille qui vincit omnia, in oculos insidet, 
et ex oculis ejaculatur, et in oculos utriusque 
videndo non solum, ut ait poeta,fcemina virum. 
sed virfceminam? that powerful being Cupid, 
who conquers all things, resides in the eyes, 
he sends out all his darts from the eyes: by 
throwing glances at the eyes (according to the 
poet) not only the woman captivates the man, 
but also the man the woman. Whatforce, 
I pray you, can * hearsay,' and ' I think, and 
I trust,' do in comparison of that c ciimprcesens 
prcesentem tuctur et alloquitur, et furore for- 
sitan amoris ductus, amplectitur,' when they 
face to face see and converse with each other, 
and the lover in a ecstacy, not to be com- 
manded, snatches an embrace, and saith to 
himself, and openly that she may hear, ' Te- 
neone te me, an etiamnum somno volunt fce- 
mincevideri cogiad id quod maximum capiunt? 1 
Are you in my arms, my fair one, or do we both 
dream, and will women even in their sleep seem 
forced to what they most desire ? If we be cold, 
it is our part, besides the person, the sex re- 
quiretb it. Why are you cold ? Is it not a 
young man's part to be bold, courageous, and 
to adventure ? If he should have, he should 
have but * honorificam repulsam ; even a re- 
pulse here is glorious : the worst that can be 
said of him is but as of Phaeton, * Quam si non 
tenuit magnis tamen excidit ausis: though he 
could not command the chariot of the sun, his 
fall from it was illustrious. So far as I conceive, 
1 Hcec est sola nostra anchor a, hcec jacenda est 
in nobis alea .•' this is our only anchor, this die 
must be thrown. In our instability, ' Unum 
momentum est uno momento perfectum fac- 
tum, ac dictum stabilitatem facer e potest •' 




one lucky moment would crown and Ax all. 
This, or else nothing is to be looked for but 
continual dalliance and doubtfulucss, so far as 
] can see. 

M Your assured friend, 
F...MI Killiogworth, 'THOMAS SMITH." 

A.i C », 1572. • 

Though my lady was in very good humour, 
upon the insinuation that, according to the 
Elizabeth scheme, she was but just advanced 
above the character of a girl ; I found the rest 
of the company as much dishearteued, that 
they were still but mere girls. I went on, there- 
fore, to attribute the immature marriages 
which are solemnized in our days to the im- 
portunity of the men, which made it impos- 
sible for young ladies to remain virgins so long 
as they wished from their own inclinations, and 
the freedom of a single life. 

There is no time of our life, under what cha- 
racter soever, in which men can wholly divest 
themselves of an ambition to be in the favour 
of women. Cardan, a grave philosopher and 
physician, confesses in one of his chapters, that 
though he had suffered poverty, repulses, ca- 
lumnies, and a long series of afflictions, he 
never was thoroughly dejected, and impatient 
of life itself, but under a calamity which he suf- 
fered from the beginniug of his twenty-first to 
the end of his thirtieth year. He tells us, that 
the raillery he suffered from others, and the con- 
tempt which he had of himself, were afflictions 
beyond expression. I mention this only as an 
argument extorted from this good and grave 
man, to support my opinion of the irresistible 
power of women. He adds in the same chapter, 
that there are ten thousand afflictions and dis- 
asters attend the passion itself; that an idle 
word imprudently repeated by a fair woman, 
and vast expenses to support her folly and va- 
nity, every day reduce men to poverty and 
death ; but he makes them of little considera- 
tion to the miserable and insignificant condition 
of being incapable of their favour. 

I make no manner of difficulty of professing 
I am not surprised that the author has ex- 
pressed himself after this manner, with relation 
to love: the heroic chastity so frequently pro- 
fessed by humorists of the fair sex, generally 
ends in an unworthy choice, after having over- 
looked overtures to their advantage. It is for 
this reason that I would endeavour to direct, 
and not pretend to eradicate the inclinations 
of the sexes to each other. Daily experience 
shows us, that the most rude rustic grows hu- 
mane as soon as be is inspired by this passion; 
it gives a new grace to our maimers, a new 
dignity to our minds, a new visage to our per- 
sons Whether we are inclined to liberal arts, 

to arrJUj or address in our exercise, our im- 
provement is hastened by a particular object 
whom WC WOUld please. ( Inn-fulness, gentle- 
ness, fortitude, liberality, magnificence, and all 

the virtues which adorn men, which inspire 
heroes, are most conspicuous in lovers. I speak 
of love as when such as are in this company 
are the objects of it, who can bestow upon their 
husbands (if they follow their excellent mo- 
ther) all its joys without any of its anxieties. 

No. 8.] Friday, March 20, 1713. 

-Animutn rege- 

Hor. Lib. 1. Ep. ti. &». 

Govern the mind. 

A Guardian cannot bestow his time in any 
office more suitable to his character, than in 
representing the disasters to which we are ex- 
posed by the irregularity of our passions. 1 
think 1 speak of this matter in a way not yet 
taken notice of, when I observe that they make 
men do things unworthy of those very pas- 
sions. I shall illustrate this by a story I have 
lately read in the Royal Commentaries of Peru, 
wherein you behold an oppressor a most con- 
temptible creature after his power is at an end ; 
and a person he oppressed so wholly intent 
upon revenge till he had obtained it, that in 
the pursuit of it he utterly neglected his own 
safety ; but when that motive of revenge was 
at an end, returned to a sense of danger, in 
such a manner as to be unable to lay hold of 
occasions which offered themselves for certain 
security, and expose himself from fear to ap- 
parent hazard. The motives which I speak of 
are not indeed so much to be called passions, 
as ill habits arising from passions, such as 
pride and revenge, which are improvements of 
our infirmities^ and arc, methinks, but scorn 
and anger regularly conducted. But to my 

Licenciado Ksquivel, governor of the city Po- 
tocsi, commanded two hundred men to march 
out of that garrison towarJs the kingdom of 
Tucman, with strict orders to use no Indians 
in carrying their baggage, and placed himself 
at a convenient station without the gates, to 
observe how his orders were put in execution ; 
he found they were wholly neglected, and that 
Indians were laden with the baggage of the 
Spaniards, but thought fit to let them march 
by till the last rank of all came up, out of which 
be seized one man called Aguire, who had two 
Indians laden with bis goods. Within few days 
after he was taken in arrest, be was sentenced 
to receive two hundred stripes. Aguire repre- 
sented by his friends, that he was the brother of 
a gentleman, who bad in bis country an estate, 
with vassalage of Indians, and hoped his birth 
would exempt him from a punishment of so much 
indignity. Licenciado persisted in the kind of 
punishment he had already pronounced; upon 
which Aguire petitioned that it might be altered 
to one that, he should not, survive; and though 
a gentleman, from that quality not liable to 

No. 8.] 



suffer so ignominious a death, humbly besought 
his excellency that he might be hanged. But 
though Licenciado appeared all his life, before 
he came into power, a person of an easy and 
tractable disposition, he was so changed by his 
office, that these applications from the unfor- 
tunate Aguire did but the more gratify his in- 
solence ; and during the very time of their 
mediation for the prisoner, he insulted them 
also, by commanding with a haughty tone, that 
his orders should be executed that very instant. 
This, as it is usual on such occasions, made 
the whole town flock together ; but the prin- 
cipal inhabitants, abhorring the severity of Li- 
cenciado, and pitying a gentleman in the con- 
dition of Aguire, went in a body, and besought 
the governor to suspend, if not remit the pu- 
nishment. Their importunities prevailed on 
him to defer the execution for eight days; but 
when they came to the prison with his warrant, 
they found Aguire already brought forth, strip- 
ped, and mounted on an ass, which is the pos- 
ture wherein the basest criminals are whipped 
in that city. His friends cried out, 'Take him 
off, take him off,' and proclaimed their order 
for suspending his punishment; but the youth, 
when he heard that it was only put off for eight 
days, rejected the favour, and said, 'All my 
endeavours have been to keep myself from 
mounting this beast, and from the shame of 
being seen naked; but since things are come 
thus far, let the sentence proceed, which will 
be less than the fears and apprehensions I shall 
have in these eight days ensuing ; besides, I 
shall not need to give further trouble to my 
friends for intercession on my behalf, which is 
as likely to be ineffectual as what hath already 
passed.' After he had said this, the ass was 
whipped forward, and Aguire ran the gantlet 
according to the sentence. The calm manner 
in which he resigned himself, when he found 
his disgrace must be, and the scorn of dallying 
with it under a suspension of a few days, 
which mercy was but another form of the go- 
vernor's cruelty, made it visible that he took 
comfort in some secret resolution to avenge 
the affront. 

After this indignity, Aguire could not be per- 
suaded (though the inhabitants of Potocsi often 
importuned him from the spirit they saw in 
him) to go upon any military undertaking, but 
excused himself with a modest sadness in his 
countenance, saying, ' that after such a shame 
as his was, death must be his only remedy and 
consolation, which he would endeavour to ob- 
tain as soon as possible.' 

Under this melancholy he remained in Peru, 
until the time in which the office of Esquivel 
expired ; after which, like a desperate man, he 
pursued and followed him, watching an oppor- 
tunity to kill him, and wipe off the shame of 
the late affront. Esquivel, being informed of 
this desperate resolution by his friends, endea- 

voured to avoid his enemy, and took a journey 
of three or four hundred leagues from him, 
supposing that Aguire would not pursue him 
at such a distance; but EsquivePs flight did but 
increase Aguire's speed in following. The first 
journey which Esquivel took was to the city 
Los Reyes, being three hundred and twenty 
leagues distant; but in less than fifteen days 
Aguire was there with him ; whereupon Es- 
quivel took another flight, as far as to the city 
of Quito, being four hundred leagues distant 
from Los Reyes ; but in a little more than 
twenty days Aguire was again with him ; which 
being intimated to Esquivel, he took another 
leap as far as Cozco, which "is five hundred 
leagues from Quito ; but in a few days after he 
arrived there, came also Aguire, travelling all 
the way on foot, without shoes or stockings, 
saying, 'that it became not the condition of a 
whipt rascal to travel on horseback, or appear 
amongst men.' In this manner did Aguire 
haunt and pursue Esquivel for three years and 
four months ; who being now tired and wearied 
with so many long and tedious journies, resolved 
to fix his abode at Cozco, where he believed 
that Aguire would scarce adventure to attempt 
any thing against him, for fear of the judge 
who governed that city, who was a severe man, 
impartial and inflexible in all his proceedings; 
and accordingly took a lodging in the middle 
of the street of the great church, where he 
lived with great care and caution, wearing a 
coat of mail under his upper coat, and went 
always armed with his sword and dagger, which 
are weapons not agreeable to his profession. 
.However Aguire followed hither also, and hav- 
ing in vain dogged him from place to place, 
day after day, he resolved to make the attempt 
upon him in his own house, which he entered, 
and wandered from room to room, till at last 
he came into his study where Licenciado lay 
on a couch asleep. Aguire stabbed him with 
his dagger with great tranquillity, and very 
leizurely wounded him in other parts of the 
body, which were not covered with his coat of 
mail. He went out of the house in safety ; but 
as his resentment was sated, he now began to 
reflect upon the inexorable temper of the go- 
vernor of the place. Under this apprehension 
he had not composure enough to fly to a 
sanctuary, which was near the place where 
he committed the fact ; but ran into the 
street, frantic and distracted, proclaiming him- 
self a criminal, by crying out, 'Hide me, hide 

The wretched fate and poor behaviour o„ 
Licenciado, in flying his country to avoid the 
same person whom he had before treated with 
so much insolence, and the high resentment of 
a man so inconsiderable as Aguire, when much 
injured, are good admonitions to little spirits 
in exalted stations, to take care how they treat 
brave men in low condition. 



fNo. 9. 

No. 9.] Saturday, March fl, 1713. 

in tantas brerl crevcrtnl opea, sea maritimls seu ter- 
IHtillmi fractions, aeu nmliitudinis increment!*, sen >anr- 
Ui.ito discipline. Ho. 

'Jlicy rose in a short time to that pitch of wealth and 
grxndear, hy means of an extensive commerce both by 
sea and land, by an increase of the people, and by the 
rigour of their laws and discipline. 

Many of the subjects of my papers will con- 
sist of such things as I have gathered from the 
conversation, or learned from the conduct of a 
gentleman, who has been very conversant in 
our family, by name Mr. Charwell.* This 
person was formerly a merchant in this city, 
who, by exact economy, great frugality, and 
very fortunate adventures, was about twenty 
years since, and the fortieth year of his age, 
arrived to the estate which we usually call a 
plum. This was a sum so much beyond his 
first ambition, that he then resolved to retire 
from the town and the business of it together. 
Accordingly he laid out one half of his money 
upon the purchase of a nobleman's estate, not 
many miles distant from the country seat of 
my lady Lizard. From this neighbourhood 
our first acquaintance began, and has ever since 
been continued will equal application on both 
sides. Mr. Charwell visits very few gentlemen 
in the country; his most frequent airings in 
the summer time are visits to my lady Lizard. 
And if ever his affairs bring him up to town 
during the winter, as soon as these are des- 
patched, he is sure to dine at her house, or to 
make one at her tea-table, to take her com- 
mands for the country. 

I shall hardly be able to give an account how 
this gentleman has employed the twenty years 
since he made the purchase I have mentioned, 
without first describing the conditions of the 

The estate then consisted of a good large old 
house, a park of two thousand acres, eight 
thousand acres more of land divided into farms. 
The land not barren, but the country very thin 
of people, and these the only consumers of the 
wheat and barley that grew upon the premises. 
A river running by the house, which was in 
the centre of the estate, but the same not na- 
vigable, and the rendering it navigable had 
been opposed by the generality of the whole 
country. The roads excessive bad, and no pos- 
sibility of getting off the tenants' corn, but at 
such a price of carriage as would exceed the 
whole value when it came to market. The 
underwoods all destroyed, to lay the country 
open '■) my lord's pleasures ; but there was in- 
deed the less want of this find, there being 
large coal-pits in the estate, within two miles 

* flic person here Blinded r<>, is said to have been the 
charitable Kdward < olatOQ,of BrUtol, member >>i PatUa- 
ment for that city, who riled unmarried in October, 17-1, 

■boot lh«' dote of hit Cighty«fiftll yen, ' without decay in 

li- nnrti i standing, ^ llhoul I iboni or mm i i w,' 

of the house, and such a plenty of coals as was 
sufficient for whole counties. But then the want 
of water-carriage made these also a mere drug, 
and almost every man's for fetching. Many 
timber-trees were still standing only for want 
of chapmen, very little being used for building 
in a country so thin of people, and those at a 
greater distance being in no likelihood of buying 
pennyworths, if they must be at the charge 
of land-carriage. Yet every tree was valued at 
a much greater price than would be given for 
it in the place ; so was every acre of land in the 
park; and, as for the tenants, they were all 
racked to extremity, and almost every one of 
them beggars. All these things Mr. Charwell 
knew very well, yet was not discouraged from 
going on with his purchase. 

|But in the first place, he resolved that a 
hundred in family should not ruin him, as it 
had done his predecessor. Therefore, pretending 
to dislike the situation of the old house, he 
made choice of another at a mile distance, 
higher up the river, at a comer of the park, 
where, at the expense of four or five thousand 
pounds, and all the ornaments ef the old house, 
he built a new one, with all convenient offices, 
more suitable to his revenues, yet not much 
larger than my lord's dog-kennel, and a great 
deal less than his lordship's stables. 

The next thing was to reduce his park. He 
took down a great many pales, and with these 
inclosed only two hundred acres of it near ad- 
joining to his new house. The rest he con- 
verted to breeding cattle, which yielded greater 

The tenants began now to be very much dis- 
satisfied with the loss of my lord's family, which 
had been a constant market for great quan- 
tities of their corn ; and with the disparking 
so much land, by which provisions were likely 
to be increased in so dispeopled a country. 
They were afraid they must be obliged them- 
selves to consume the whole product of their 
farms, and that they should be soon undone 
by the economy and frugality of this gentle- 

Mr. Charwell was sensible their fears were 
but too just ; and that, if neither their goods 
could be carried off to distant markets, nor the 
markets brought home to their goods, his 
tenants must run away from their farms. He 
had no hopes of making the river navigable, 
which was a point that could not be obtained 
by all the interest of his predecessor, and was 
therefore not likely to be yielded up to a man 
who was not yet known in the country. All 
that was left for him was to bring the market 
home to his tenants, which was the very thing 
he intended before he ventured upon his pur- 
chase. He had even then projected in his 
thoughts the plan of a great town just below 
the old house ; he therefore presently set him- 
self about the execution of his project. 

No. 9. 



The thing has succeeded to his wish. In the 
space of twenty years he is so fortunate as to 
see a thousand new houses upon his estate, 
and at least five thousand new people, men, 
women, and children, inhabitants of those 
houses, who are comfortably subsisted by their 
own labour, whithout charge to Mr. Charwell, 
and to the great profit of his tenants. 

It cannot be imagined that such a body of 
people can be subsisted at less than five pounds 
per head, or twenty-five thousand pounds per 
annum, the greatest part of which sum is an- 
nually expended for provisions among the far- 
mers of the next adjacent lands. And as the 
tenants of Mr. Charwell are nearest of all 
others to the market, they have the best prices 
for their goods by all that is saved in the car- 

But some provisions are of that nature, that 
they will not bear a much longer carriage than 
from the extreme parts of his lands ; and I 
think I have been told, that for the single ar- 
ticle of milk, at a pint every day for every 
house, his tenants take from this town not 
much less than five hundred pounds per an s 

The soil of all kinds, which is made every 
year by the consumption of so great a town, 
I have heard has been valued at two hundred 
pounds per annum. If this be true, the estate 
of Mr. Charwell is so much improved in this 
very article, since all this is carried out upon 
his lands by the back carriage of those very 
carts, which were loaden by his tenants with 
provisions and other necessaries for the people. 

A hundred thousand bushels of coal are ne- 
cessary to supply so great a multitude with 
yearly fuel. And as these are taken out of the 
coal-pits of Mr. Charwell, he receives a penny 
for every bushel ; so that this very article is an 
addition of four hundred pounds per annum to 
his revenues. And as the town and people are 
every year increasing, the revenues in the 
above-mentioned, and many other articles, are 
increasing in proportion. 

There is now no longer any want of the fa- 
mily of the predecessor. The consumption of 
five thousand people is greater than can be 
made by any fifty of the greatest families in 
Great Britain. The tenants stand in no need 
of distant markets to take off the product of 
their farms. The people so near their own doors 
are already more than they are able to supply ; 
and what is wanting at home for this purpose 
is supplied from places at greater distance, at 
whatsoever price of carriage. 

All the farmers every where near the river 
are now, in their turn, for an act of parliament 
to make it navigable, that they may have an 
easy carriage for their corn to so good a market. 
The tenants of Mr. Charwell, that they may 
have the whole market to themselves> are al- 
most .the only persons against it. But they 

will not be long able to oppose it : their leases 
are near expiring : and as they are grown very 
rich, there are many other persons ready to 
take their farms at more than double the pre- 
sent rents, even though the river should he 
made navigable, and distant people let in to sell 
their provisions together with these farmers. 

As for Mr. Charwell himself, he is in no 
manner of pain lest his lands should fall in 
their value by the cheap carriage of provisions 
from distant places to his town. He knows 
very well the cheapness of provisions was one 
great means of bringing together so great 
numbers, and that they must be held together 
by the same means. He seems to have nothing 
more in his thoughts than to increase his town 
to such an extent, that all the country for ten 
miles round about shall be little enough to 
supply it. He considers that at how great a 
distance soever provisions shall be brought 
thither, they must end at last in so much soil 
for his estate, and that the farmers of other 
lands will by this means contribute to the im- 
provement of his own. 

But by what encouragement and rewards, 
by what arts and policies,, and what sort of 
people he has invited to live upon his estate, 
and how he has enabled them to subsist by 
their own labour, to the great improvement of 
his lands, will be the subjects of some of my 
future precautions. 

* To the Guardian. 

•SIR, March 16. 

' By your paper of Saturday last, you give 
the town hopes that you will dedicate that day 
to religion. You could not begin it better than 
by warning your pupils of the poison vented 
under a pretence to free-thinking. If you can 
spare room in your next Saturday's paper for a 
few lines on the same subject, these are at your 

' I happened to be present at a public con- 
versation of some of the defenders of this dis- 
course of free-thinking, and others that differed 
from them ; where I had the diversion of hear- 
ing the same man in one breath, persuade us 
to freedom of thought, and in the next, offer 
to demonstrate that we had no freedom in any 
thing. One would think men should blush, 
to find themselves entangled in a greater con- 
tradiction than any the discourse ridicules. 
This principle of free fatality or necessary li- 
berty, is a worthy fundamental of the new sect ; 
and indeed, this opinion is an evidence and 
clearness so nearly related to transubstantia- 
tion, that the same genius seems requisite for 
either. It is fit the world should know how 
far reason abandons men that would employ 
it against religion ; which intention, 1 hope, 
justifies this trouble from, Sir, 

* Your hearty well-wisher, 




[No. 10. 

No, 1".] Mmlay, March ?3, 1713. 
Venn ad me « e| c rlunltws 

Vi»nin iiiiniuiii Indulges, minium ineptos c% 
Nlmiojn ij)«c est dams prater BBqnamqne ft bonam, 

Tt r. Adeiph. Act i. sc. l. 

Hi Is perpetually coming to me, and ringing in my e.trs, 
thai I do wmng to indulge him so lunch in tlie article of 
dress ! bnl Uie fault lies in his own excessive and unrca 
soluble severity. 

When I am in deep meditation in order to 
give my wards proper precautions, I have a 
principal regard to the prevalence of things 
which people of merit neglect, and from which 
those of no merit raise to themselves an esteem : 
of this nature is the business of dress. It is 
weak in a man of thought and reflection to be 
either depressed or exalted from the perfections 
or disadvantages of his person. However there 
is a respective conduct to be observed in the 
habit, according to the eminent distinction of 
the body, either way. A gay youth in the 
possession of an ample fortune could not re- 
commend his understanding to those who are 
not of his acquaintance more suddenly, than 
by sobriety in his habit ; as this is winning at 
first sight, so a person gorgeously fine, which 
in itself should avoid the attraction of the be- 
holders' eyes, gives as immediate offence. 

I make it my business when my lady Lizard's 
youngest daughter, miss Molly, is making 
clothes, to consider her from head to foot, and 
cannot be easy when there is any doubt lies 
upon me concerning the colour of a knot, or 
any other part of her head-dress, which by its 
darkness or liveliness might too much allay or 
brighten her complexion. There is something 
loose in looking as well as you possibly can ; but 
it is also a vice not to take care how you look. 

The indiscretion of believing that great qua- 
lities make up for the want of things less con- 
siderable, is punished too severely in those who 
are guilty of it. Every day's experience shows 
us, among variety of people with whom we are 
not acquainted, that we take impressions too 
favourable and too disadvantageous of men at 
first sight from their habit. I take this to be 
a point of great consideration, and I shall con- 
sider it in my future precautions as such. As 
to the female world, I shall give them my opi- 
nion at large by way of comment upon a new 
suit of the Sparkler's, which is to come home 
next week. I design it a model for the ladies ; 
she and I have had three private meetings 
about it. As to the men, 1 am very glad to 
bear, being myself a fellow of Lincoln-college, 
that there is at last in one of our universities 
risen a happy genius for little things. It is 
extremely to be lamented, that hitherto we 
i >inic from the college as unable to put on our 
own clothes as we do from nurse. We owe 
many misfortunes, and an unhappy backward- 
ness in urging our way in the world, to the 
neglect of these less matters. For this reason 

1 shall authorise and support the gentleman 
who writes me the following letter; and though, 
out of diffidence of the reception his proposal 
should meet with from me, he has given him- 
self too ludicrous a figure ; I doubt not but from 
his notices to make men who cannot ariive at 
learning in that place, come from thence with- 
out appearing ignorant ; and such as can, to be 
truly knowing without appearing bookish. 

1 To the Guardian. 

Oxford, March 18, 
'SIR, 1712-13. 

' 1 foresee that you will have many cor- 
respondents in this place ; but as I have often 
observed, with grief of heart, that scholars are 
wretchedly ignorant in the science I profess, 
I flatter myself that my letter will gain a place 
in your papers. I have made it my study, sir, 
in these seats of learning, to look into the 
nature of dress, and am what they call an 
academical beau. I have often lamented that 
I am obliged to wear a grave habit, since by 
that means I have not an opportunity to in- 
troduce fashions amongst our young gentle- 
men ; and so am forced, contrary to my own 
inclinations, and the expectation of all who 
know me, to appear in print. I have indeed 
met with some success in the projects I have 
communicated to some sparks with whom I am 
intimate ; and I cannot without a secret 
triumph confess, that the sleeves turned up 
with green velvet, which now flourish through- 
out the university, sprang originally from my 

As it is necessary to have the head clear, 
as well as the complexion, to be perfect in this 
part of learning, I rarely mingle with the men 
(for 1 abhor wine,) but frequent the tea-tables 
of the ladies. I know every part of their dress, 
and can name all their things by their names. 
I am consulted about every ornament they 
buy; and, I speak it without vanity, have a 
very pretty fancy to knots, and the like. Some- 
times I take a needle, and spot a piece of 
muslin for pretty Patty Cross-stitch, who is 
my present favourite, which, she says, I do 
neatly enough ; or read one of your papers, 
and explain the motto, which they all like 
mightily. But then I am a sort of petty tyrant 
amongst them, for I own I have my humours. 
If any thing be amiss, they are sure Mr. Sleek 
will find fault; if any hoity-toity things make 
a fuss, they are sure to be taken to pieces the 
next visit. I am the dread of poor Celia, whose 
wrapping-gown is not right India; and am 
avoided by Thalastris, in her second-hand 
mantua, which several masters of arts think 
very fine, whereas I perceived it had been 
scoured, with half an eye. 

1 Thus have I endeavoured to improve my 
understanding, and am desirous to commu- 
nicate my innocent discoveries to those, who, 

No. 11,] 



like me, may distinguish themselves more to 
advantage by their bodies than their minds. 
J do not think the pains I have taker in these 
my studies, thrown away, since by these means, 
though 1 am not very valuable, I am however 
not disagreeable. Would gentlemen but reflect 
upon what I say, they would take care to make 
the best of themselves ; for I think it intoler- 
able that a blockhead should be a sloven. 
Though every man cannot fill his head with 
learning, it is in any one's power to wear a 
pretty periwig; let him who cannot say a witty 
thing, keep his teeth white at least; he who 
hath no knack at writing sonnets, may how- 
ever have a soft hand ; and he may arch his 
eye-brows, who hath not strength of genius 
for the mathematics. 

' After the conclusion of the peace, we shall 
undoubtedly have new fashions from France ; 
and 1 have some reason to think that some 
particularities in the garb of their abb£s may 
be transplanted hither to advantage. What 
I find becoming in their dress I hope f may, 
without the imputation of being popishly in- 
clined, adopt into our habits ; but would wil- 
lingly have the authority of the Guardian to 
countenance me in this harmless design. I 
would not hereby assume to myself a jurisdic- 
tion over any of our youth, but such k as are 
jcapable of improvement any other way. As 
for the awkward creatures that mind their 
studies, I look upon them as irreclaimable. 
But over the afore- mentioned order of men, 
I desire a commission from you to exercise full 
authority. Hereby I shall be enabled from 
time to time to introduce several pretty odd- 
nesses in the taking and tucking up of gowns, 
to regulate the dimensions of wigs, to vary the 
t-jfts upon caps, and to enlarge or. narrow the 
hems of bands, as I shall think most for the 
public good. 

' 1 have prepared a treatise against the cravat 
and berdash,* which I am told is not ill done ; 
and .have thrown together some hasty obser- 
vations upon stockings, which my friends assure 
me I need not be ashamed of. But I shall 
not offer them to the public until they are 
approved of at our female club ; which I am 
the more willing to do, because I am sure of 
their praise ; for they own I understand these 
things better than they do. I shall herein be 
very proud of your encouragement ; for, next 
to keeping the university clean, my greatest 
ambition is to be thought. Sir, 

* Your most obedient hi mble servant, 


No. ll.] Tuesday, March 24, 1713 

Hue propius me, 

Dam doceo insanire omnes, vos ordine adite. 

Hor. Lib. 2. Sat. iii. 80. 

• A kind of uetikcloth so called, whence such as sold them 
ere styled hsberdaslurs. 

Attend my lecture, whilst I plainly show, 
That all mankind are mad, from high to low. 

There is an oblique way of reproof, which 
takes off from the sharpness of it ; and an 
address in flattery, which makes it agreeable 
though never so gross: but of all flatterers, the 
most skilful is he who can do what you like, 
without saying any thing which argues he does 
it for your sake; the most winning circum- 
stance in the world being the conformity of 
manners. I speak of this as a practice neces- 
sary in gaining people of sense, who are no. 
yet given up to self-conceit; those who ar 
far gone in admiration of themselves need not 
be treated with so much delicacy. The follow- 
ing letter puts this matter in a pleasant and 
uncommon light : the author of it attacks this 
vice with an air of compliance, and alarms us 
against it by exhorting us to it. 

To the Guardian. 

* As you profess to encourage all those who 
any way contribute to the public good, I flatter 
myself I may claim your countenance and pro- 
tection. I am by profession a mad-doctor, but 
of a peculiar kind, not of those whose aim it 
is to remove frenzies, but one who makes it 
my business to confer an agreeable madness 
on my fellow-creatures, for their mutual delight 
and benefit. Since it is agreed by the philo- 
sophers, that happiness and misery consist 
chiefly in the imagination, nothing is more 
necessary to mankind in general than this 
pleasing delirium, which renders every one 
satisfied with himself, and persuades him that 
all others are equally so. 

* I have for several years, both at home and 
abroad, maJe this science my particular study, 
which I may venture to say I have improved 
in almost all the courts of Europe ; and have 
reduced it into so safe and easy a method, as 
to practise it on both sexes, of what dispo- 
sition, age, or quality soever, with success. 
What enables me to perform this great work, 
is the use of my Obsequium Catholicon, or the 
Grand Elixir, to support the spirits of human 
nature. This remedy is of the most grateful 
flavour in the world, and agrees with all tastes 
whatever. It is delicate to the senses, de- 
lightful in the operation, may be taken at all 
hours without confinement, and is as properly 
given at a ball or playhouse as in a private 
chamber. It restores and vivifies the most 
dejected minds, corrects and extracts all that 
is painful in the knowledge of a man's self. 
One dose of it will instantly disperse itself 
through the whole animal system, dissipate 
the first motions of distrust so as never to re 
turn, and so exhilirate the braitf \nd rarify the 
gloom of reflection, as to give tlie patients a 
new flow of spirits, a vivacity of behaviour, 
and a pleasing dependence upon their own 
capacities. r 



No. II. 

' Let ■ person be never so far gone, 1 advise 
him not to despair; even though he has heen 
troubled many years with restless reflections, 
which by long neglect have hardened into 
-wiled consideration. Those that have heen 
.tttng with satire may here find a certain an- 
tidote, which infallibly disperses all the remains 
jf poison that has been left in the understand- 
ing by bad cures. It fortifies the heart against 
the rancour of pamphlets, the inveteracy of 
epigrams, and the mortification of lampoons ; 
as has heen often experienced by several per- 
sons of both sexes, during the seasons of Tun- 
bridge and the Bath. 

1 I could, as farther instances of my success, 
produce certificates and testimonials from the 
favourites and ghostly fathers of the most 
eminent princes of Europe ; but shall content 
myself with the mention of a few cures, which 
1 have performed by this my grand universal 
restorative, during the practice of one month 
only since I came to this city. 

€ures in the month of February, 1713. 
' George Spondee, Esq. poet, and inmate of 
the pansh of St: Paul's Covent-garden, fell 
into violent fits of the spleen upon a thin third 
night. He had heen frighted into a vertigo 
hy the sound of cat-calls on the first day ; and 
the frequent hissings on the second made him 
unable to endure the bare pronunciation of the 
letterS. I searched into the causes of his dis- 
temper ; and by the prescription of a dose of 
*ny Obsequium, prepared secundum artem, 
recovered him to his natural state of madness. 
I cast in at proper intervals the words, 111 
taste of the town, Envy of critics, Bad per- 
formance of the actors, and the like. He is 
so perferctly cured that he has promised to 
.ring another play upon the stage next winter. 
A lady of professed virtue, of the parish of 
St. James's, Westminster, who hath desired 
her name may be concealed, having taken 
offence at a phrase of double meaning in con- 
versation, undiscovered by any other in the 
company, suddenly fell into a cold fit of mo- 
desty. Upon a right application of praise of 
her virtue, I threw the lady into an agreeable 
waking dream, settled the fermentation of her 
blood into a warm charity, so as to make her 
look with patience on the very gentleman that 

Hilar la, of the parish of St. Giles's in the 
fields, a coquette of long practice, was by the 
reprimand of an old maiden i educed to look 
grave in company, and deny herself the play 
of the fan. hi short, she was brought to such 

melancholy circumstances, that she would 

sometimes unawares fall into devotion at 
church. I advised her to take a few innocent 
freedoms with occasional kisses, prescribed 
her the exercise of the eyes, and immediately 
rair.ed her to her former state of life. She on 

a sudden recovereu ner dimples, furled her fan, 
threw round her glances, and for these two 
Sundays last past has not once been seen in an 
attentive posture. This the churchwardens 
are ready to attest upon oath. 

* Andrew Terror, of the Middle temple, mo- 
hock, was almost induced by an aged bencher 
of the same house to leave off bright conver- 
sation, and pure over Coke upon Littleton. 
He was so ill that his hat began to flap, and 
he was seen one day in the last term at West* 
minster-hall. This patient had quite lost his 
spirit of contradiction; I, by the distillation 
of a few of my vivifying drops in his ear, drew 
him from his lethargy, and restored him to his* 
usual vivacious misunderstanding. He is at 
present very easy in his condition. 

1 I will not dwell upon the recital of the 
innumerable cures I have performed within 
twenty days last past; but rather proceed ttt 
exhort all persons of whatever age, complexion, 
or quality, to take as soon as possible of this 
my intellectual oil : which applied at the ear 
seizes all the senses with a most agreeable 
transport, and discovers its effects, not only 
to the satisfaction of the patient, but all who 
converse with, attend upon,- or any way relate 
to him or her that receives the kindly infec- 
tion, it is often administered by chamber- 
maids, valets, or any the most ignorant d'>- 
mestic; it being one peculiar excellence of 
this my oil, that it is most prevalent, the more 
unskilful the person is or appears who applies 
it. It is absolutely necessary for ladies to take 
a dose of it just before they take coach to go 
a visiting. 

' But J offend the public, as Horace said, 
when I trespass on any of your time. Give 
me leave then, Mr. Ironside, to make you a 
present of a drachm or two of my oil; though 
I have cause to fear my prescriptions will not 
have the effect upon you I could wish : there- 
fore I do not endeavour to bribe you in my 
favour by the present of my oil, but wholly 
depend upon your public spirit and generosity ; 
which, I hope, will recommend to the world 
the useful endeavours of, Sir, 
Your most obedient, 

most faithful, most devoted, 

most humble servant and admirer, 

' (iN.ATHO. 

* m * Beware of counterfeits, for such are 

' N. B. I teach the arcana of my art at rea- 
sonable rates to gentlemen of the universities^ 
who desire to be qualified for writing dedica- 
tions; and to young lovers and fortune-hunters, 
to be paid at the day of marriage. I instruct 
pcrs ins of bright capacities to flatter others, 
and t hose of the meanest, to flatter themselves. 
I was the first inventor of Docket looking- 

No. 12.] 



No. H>.] Wednesday, March 25, 1713. 

W I tin i:i nil rectum, nisi quod placuit sibi, dncunt : 
\'el quia turpc putant parere minoiibns— 

Hot. Lib. 2. Ep. i. 84. 


You'd think no fools disgraced the former rei«n, 
Did not some grave examples jet remain, 
Who scorn a lad should match his father's skill, 
And having once been wrong, will be so still. Pope. 

When a poem makes its first appearance in 
the world, I have always observed that it gives 
employment to a greater number of critics 
than any other kind of writing. Whether it 
be that most men, at some time of their lives, 
have tried their talent that way, and thereby 
think they have a right to judge; or whether 
they imagine, that their making shrewd obser- 
vations upon the polite arts, gives them a 
pretty figure ; or whether there may not be 
some jealousy and caution in bestowing ap- 
plause upon those who write chiefly for fame. 
Whatever the reasons be, we find few dis- 
couraged by the delicacy and danger of such 
an undertaking. 

I think it certain that most men are na- 
t«* rally not only capable of being pleased with 
that which raises agreeable pictures in the 
fancy, but willing also to own it. But then 
there are many, who, by false applications of 
some rules ill understood, or out of deference 
to men whose opinions they value, have formed 
to themselves certain schemes and systems o f 
satisfaction, and will not be pleased out o 1 
their own way. These are not critics them 
selves, but readers of critics, who, without the 
labour of perusing authors, are able to give 
their characters in general ; and know just as 
much of the several species of poetry, as those 
who read books of geography do of the genius 
of this or that people or nation. These gen- 
tlemen deliver their opinions sententiously, 
and ixi general terms ; to which it being im- 
p issible readily to frame complete answers, 
they have often the satisfaction of leaving the 
board in triumph. As young persons, and par- 
ticularly the ladies, are liable to be led aside 
by these tyrants in wit, I shall examine two or 
three of the many stratagems they use, and 
subjoin such precautions as may hinder candid 
readers from being deceived thereby. 

The first 1 shall take notice of is an objec- 
tion commonly offered, viz. * that such a poem 
path indeed some good lines in it, but it is not 
a regular piece.' This, for the most part, is 
urged by those whose knowledge is drawn from 
some famous French critics, who have written 
npon the epic poem, the drama, and the great 
kinds of poetry, which cannot subsist without 
great regularity ; but ought by no means to 
be required in odes, epistles, panegyrics, and 
the like, which naturally admit of greater 
liberties. The enthusiasm in odes, and the 
freedom of epistles, is rarely disputed: but 

I have often heard the poems upon public occa- 
sions, written in heroic verse, which I choose 
to call panegyrics, severely censured upon this 
account ; the reason whereof 1 cannot guess, 
unless it be, that because they are written in 
the same kind of numbers and spirit as an epic 
poem, they ought therefore to have the same 
regularity. Now an epic poem consisting chiefly 
in narration, it is necessary that the incidents 
should he related in the same order that they 
are supposed to have been transacted. But in 
works of the above-mentioned kind, there is 
no more reason that such order should be ob- 
served, than that an oration should be as me- 
thodical as a history. I think it sufficient 
that the great hints suggested from the sub- 
ject, be so disposed, that the first may naturally 
prepare the reader for what follows, and so on ; 
and that their places cannot be changed with- 
out disadvantage to the whole. 1 will add 
further, that sometimes gentle deviations, 
sometimes bold, and even abrupt digressions, 
where the dignity of the subject seems to give 
the impulse, are proofs of a noble genius; as 
winding about and returning artfully to the 
main design are marks of address and dexterity. 
Another artifice made use of by pretenders 
to criticism, is an insinuation, ' that all that 
is good is borrowed from the ancients.' Th s 
is very common in the mouths of pedants, ana 
perhaps in their hearts too ; but is often urged 
1 by men of no great learning, for reasons very 
obvious. Now nature being still the same, it 
is impossible for any modern writer to paint 
her otherwise than the ancients have done. If, 
for example, I was to describe the general's 
horse at the battle of Blenheim as my fancy 
represented such a noble beast, and that de- 
scription should resemble what Virgil hath 
drawn for the horse of his hero, >t would be 
almost as ill-natuFed to urge that I had stolen 
my description from Virgil, as to reproach the 
duke of Marlborough for fighting ordy like 
jEneas. All that the most exquisite judgment 
can perform is, out of that great variety of cir 
cumstances wherein natural objects may be 
considered, to select the most beautiful; and 
to place images in such views and lights as will 
affect the fancy after the most delightful man- 
ner.. But over and above a just painting of 
nature, a learned reader will find a new beauty 
superadded in a happy imitation of some famous 
ancient, as it revives in his mind the pleasure 
he took in his first reading such an author. 
Such copyings as these give that kind of double 
delight which we perceive when we look upon 
the children of a beautiful couple ; where the 
eye is not more charmed with the symmetry 
of the parts, than the mind by observing the 
resemblance transmitted from parents to their 
offspring, and the mingled features of the father 
and mother. The phrases of holy writ, and 
allusions to several passages in the inspired 



[No. 13. 

writing! (though not produced .15 proofs of 
doctrine) add majesty and authority to the 
noil, st discourses of the pulpit : in like manner, 
an imitation of the air of Homer and Virgil, 
raises the dignity of modern poetry, and makes 
it appear stately and venerable. 

The last observation I shall make at present 
it upon the disgust taken by those critics, who 
put on their clothes prettily, aud dislike ever}' 
thing that is not written with ease. 1 hereby 
therefore give the genteel part of the learned 
world to understand, that every thought which 
is agreeable to nature, and expressed in lan- 
guage suitable to it, is written with ease. There 
are some things which must be written with 
strength, which nevertheless are easy. The 
statue of the gladiator, though represented in 
such a posture as strains every muscle, is as 
easy as that of Venus ; because the one ex- 
presses strength and fury as naturally as the 
other doth beauty and softness. The passions 
are sojnetimes to be roused, as well as the fancy 
to be entertained ; and the soul to be exalted and 
enlarged, as well as soothed. This often requires 
a raised and figurative style; which readers 
of low apprehensions, or soft and languid dispo- 
sitions (having heard of the words, fustian and 
bombast) are apt to reject as stiff and affected 
language. But nature and reason appoint dif- 
ferent garbs for different things; and since I 
write this to the men of dress, I will ask them 
if a soldier, who is to mount a breach, should 
be adorned like a beau, who is spruced up for 
a ball ? 

No. 13.] Thursday, March 26, 1713. 

«•» Pudore et liberalitate liberos 

Retitrere, satins esse, credo, qnam nictn. 

Ter. Adelph. Act. i. Sc. l. 

I cfteem it better to keep children in awe by a sense 
of shame, and a condescension to their inclinations, than 
by fear. 

The reader has had some account of the 
whole family of the Lizards, except the younger 
sons. These are the branches which ordinarily 
spread themselves, when they happen to be 
hopeful, into other houses, and new genera- 
tions, as honourable, numerous, and wealthy, 
as those from whence they are derived. For this 
reason it is, that a very peculiar regard is to 
be had to their education. 

Young men, when they are good for any 
thing, and left to their own inclinations, delight 
cither in those accomplishments we call their 
exercise, in the sports of the field, or in letters. 

Mr* Thomas, the second son, does not follow 

any of these with too deep an attention, but 
took to each of them enough never to appear 
ungraceful or ignorant. This general incli- 
nation makes him the more agreeable, and 
saves him from the imputation of pedantry. 

Mis carriage is so easy, that be is acceptable 

to all with whom he converses ; he generally 
falls in with the inclination of his company, if 
never assuming, or prefers himself to others. 
Thus he always gains favour without envy, and 
has every man's good wishes. It is remarkable, 
that from his birth to this day, though he is 
now four-and-twenty, 1 do not rememember 
that he has ever had a debate with any of his 
play-fellows or friends.. 

His thoughts, and present applications are 
to get into a court life; for which, indeed, I 
cannot but think him peculiarly formed for 
he has joined to this complacency of manners 
a great natural sagacity, and can very well 
distinguish between things and appearances. 
That way of life, wherein all men are rivals, 
demauds great circumspection to avoid con- 
troversies arising from different interests; but 
he who is by nature of a flexible temper lias 
his work half done. I have been particularly 
pleased with his behaviour towards women : 
he has the skill, in their conversation, to con- 
verse with them, as a man would with those 
from whom he might have expectations, but 
without making requests. I do not know that 
I ever heard him make what they call a com- 
pliment, or be particular in his address to any 
lady ; and yet I never heard any woman speak 
of him, but with a peculiar regard. I believe 
he has been often beloved, but know not that 
he was ever yet a lover. The great secret 
among them, is to be amiable without design. 
He has a voluble speech, a vacant countenance, 
and easy action, which represents the fact 
which he is relating with greater delight than 
it would have been to have been present at 
the transaction he recounts. For you see it 
not only your own way by the bare narration, 
but have the additional pleasure of his sense or 
it, by this manner of representing it. There 
are mixed in his talk so many pleasant ironies, 
that things which deserve the severest lan- 
guage are made ridiculjus instead of odious, 
and you see every thing in the most good-na- 
tured aspect it can bear. It is wonderfully 
entertaining to me to hear him so exquisitely 
pleasant, and never say an ill-natured thing. 
He is, with all his acquaintance, the person 
generally chosen to reconcile any difference, 
and if it be capable of accommodation, Tom 
Lizard is an unexceptionable referee. It has 
happened to him more than once, that he has 
been employed by each opposite in a private 
manner, to feel the pulse of the adversary ; 
and when each has proposed the decision of the 
matter, by any whom the other should name, 
he has taken hold of the occasion, and put on 
the authority assigned by them both, so sea- 
sonably, that they have begun a new corre- 
spondence with each other, fortified by his 
friendship to whom they both owe the value 
they have for one another, and consequently, 
confer a greater measure of their good-will 

No. 13.] 



upon the interposer. I must repeat, that above 
all, my young man is excellent at raising the 
subject on which he speaks, and casting a light 
upon it more agreeable to his company, than 
they thought the subject was capable of. He 
avoids all emotion and violence, and never is 
warm, but on an affectionate occason. Gen- 
tleness is what peculiarly distinguishes him 
from other men, and it runs through all his 
words and actions. 

Mr. William, the next brother, is not of this 
smooth make, nor so ready to accommodate 
himself to the humours and inclinations of other 
men, but to weigh what passes with some 
severity. He is ever searching into the first 
springs and causes of any action or circum- 
stance, insomuch, that if it were not to be ex- 
pected that experience and conversation would 
allay that humour, it must inevitably turn 
him to ridicule. But it is not proper to break 
in upon an inquisitive temper, that is of use to 
him in the way of life which he proposes to 
himself, to wit, the study of the law, and the 
endeavour to arrive at a faculty in pleading.- 
J have been very careful to kill in him any 
pretensions to follow men already eminent, 
any farther than as their success is an encou- 
ragement; but make it my endeavour to 
cherish, in the principal and first place, his 
eager pursuit of solid knowledge in his pro- 
fession : for I think that clear conception will 
produce clear expression, and clear expression 
proper action : 1 never saw a man speak very 
well, where I could not apparently observe this, 
and it shall be a maxim with me till I see an 
instance to the contrary. When young and 
unexperienced men take any particular person 
for their pattern, they are apt to imitate them 
in such things, to which their want of know- 
ledge makes them attribute success, and not 
to the real causes of it. Thus one may have 
an air, which proceeds from a just sufficiency 
and knowledge of the matter before him, which 
may naturally produce some motion of his head 
and body, which might become the bench 
better than the bar. How painfully wrong 
would this be in a youth, at his first appearance, 
when it is not well even for the sergeant of the 
greatest weight and dignity. But I will, at 
this time, with a hint only of his way of life, 
leave Mr. William at hi.« **^dy in the Temple. 

The youngest son, Mr. John, is now in the 
twentieth year of his age, and has had the good 
fortune and honour to be chosen last election 
Cellow of All-souls college in Oxford. He is 
very graceful in his person ; has height, 
strength, vigour, and a certain cheerfulness 
and serenity that creates a sort of love, which 
people at first sight observe is ripening into 
esteem. He has a sublime vein in poetry, and 
a warm manner in recommending, either in 
speech or writing, whatever he has earnestly 
at heart. This excellent voung man has de- 

voted himself to the service of his Creator; 
and, with an aptitude to every agreeable qua- 
lity, and every happy talent, that could make 
a man shine in a court, or command in a 
camp, he is resolved to go into holy orders. 
He is inspired with a true sense of that func- 
tion, when chosen from a regard to the in- 
terests of piety and virtue, and a scorn of what- 
ever men call great in a transitory being, when 
it comes in competition with what is unchange- 
able and eternal. Whatever men would un- 
dertake from a passion to glory, whatever they 
would do for the service of their country, this 
youth has a mind prepared to achieve for the 
salvation of souls. What gives me great hopes 
that he will one day make an extraordinary 
figure ',;: the Christian world is, that his in- 
vention, his memory, judgment and imagina- 
tion, are always employed upon this one view ; 
and I do not doabt, but in my future precau- 
tions, to present the youth of this age with 
more agreeable narrations compiled by this 
young man on the subject of heroic piety, than 
any they can meet with in the legends of love 
and honour. 

No, 14.] Friday, March 27, 1713. 

Nee sit, qua sit iter, nee si sciat imperet 

Ovid, Met. Lib. ii. 170. 

-Nor did he know 

Which way to turn the reins, or where to go ; 
Nor would the horses, had he known, obey., 


* To the Guardian. 

* You having in your first paper declaied, 
among other things, that you will publish 
whatever you think may conduce to the ad- 
vancement of the conversation of gentlemen, 
I cannot but hope you will give my young 
masters, when 1 have told you their age, con- 
dition, and how they lead their lives, and who, 
though I say it, are as docile as any youths in 
Europe, a lesson which they very much want, 
to restrain them from the infection of bad com- 
pany, and squandering away their time in idle 
and unworthy pursuits. A word from you, I 
am very well assured, will prevail more with 
them than any remonstrance they will meet with 
at home. The eldest is now about seventeen 
years of age, and the younger fifteen, born of 
noble parentage, and to plentiful fortunes. 
They have a very good father and mother, and 
also a governor, but come very seldom (except 
against their wills) in the sight of any of them. 
That which I observe they have moat relish to, 
is horses and cock-fighting, which they too 
well understand, being almost positive at first 
sight to tell you which horse will win the 
match, and which cock the battle ; and if you 
are of another opinion, will lay you what you 
please on their own, and it is odds but vou lose. 



[No. 14. 

U hat I tear to be the greatest prejudice to 
them, is their keeping much closer to their 
horses' heels than their books, and conversing 
more with their stablemen and lackies than 
with their relations and gentlemen: and, I ap- 
prehend, are at this time better skilled how to 
hold the reins and drive a coach, than to trans- 
late a verse in Virgil or Horace. For, the other 
day, taking a walk abroad, th?e met accident- 
ally in the fields with two young ladies, whose 
conversation they were very much pleased with, 
and being desirous to ingratiate themselves 
further into their favour, prevailed with them, 
though they had never seen them before in 
their lives, to take the air in a coach of their 
father's which waited for them at the end of 
Gray's -inn -lane. The youths ran with the 
wings of love, and ordered the coachman to 
wait at the town's end till they came back. 
One of our young gentlemen got up before, 
and the other behind, to act the parts they had 
long, by the direction and example of their 
comrades, taken much pains to qualify them- 
selves for, and so gallopped off. What these 
mean entertainments will end in, it is impos- 
sible to foresee; but a precaution upon that 
subject might prevent very great calamities in 
a very worthy family, who take in your papers, 
and might perhaps be alarmed at what you lay 
before them upon this subject. 
1 I am, Sir, 

* Your most humble servant, 

« T. S.' 

Te the Guardian. 


1 I writ to you on the twenty-first of this 
month, which you did not think fit to take 
notice of; it gives me the greater trouble that 
you did not, because I am confident the father 
of tne young lads whom I mentioned, would 
have considered how far what was said in my 
letter concerned himself; upon which it is 
now too late to reflect. His ingenious son, the 
coachman, aged seventeen years, has since that 
time, ran away with, and married one of the 
girls I spoke of in my last. The manner of 
carrying on the intrigue, as I have picked it 
out of the younger brother, who is almost six- 
teen, still a bachelor, was as follows. One of 
the young women whom they met in the fields 
seemed very much taken with my master, the 
elder BOD, and was prevailed with to go into a 
cake-house not far off the town. The girl, it 
si cms, acted her part so well, as to enamour 
the boy, and make biro inquisitive into her 
place of abode, with all other questions which 

were pece&iary toward further intimacy. The 
matter \\:i^ so managed, that the lad was made 
to believe there was no possibility of conversing 
with her, by reason of a very severe mother, 
but with the utmost caution. What, it seems, 
mad' (lie mother, forsooth, the more suspicious 

was, that .because the men said her daughter 
was pretty, somebody or other would persu uk 
her to marry while she was too young to know 
how to govern a family. By what I can l~aru 
from pretences as shallow as this, she appeared 
so far from having a design upon her lo\cr, 
that it seemed impracticable to him to get 
her, except it were carried on with much se- 
crecy and skill. Many were the interviews 
these lovers had in four-and- twenty hours time: 
for it was managed by the mother, that he 
should run in and out as unobserved by her, and 
*' -girl be called every other instant into the 
;,ext room, and rated (that she could not stay 
in a place) in his hearing. The young gentle- 
man was at last so much in love, as to he 
thought by the daughter engaged far enough 
to put it to the venture that he could not live 
without her. It was now time for the mother 
to appear, who surprised the lovers together in 
private, and banished the youth her house 
What is not in the power of love! the cha- 
rioteer, attended by his faithful friend, the 
younger brother, got out the other morning a 
little earlier than ordinary, and having made 
a sudden friendship with a lad of their o«t, 
age the force of ten shillings, who drove a 
hackney coach, the elder brother took his post 
in the caoch-box, where he could act with a 
great deal of skill and dexterity, and waited at 
the corner of the street where his mistress lived, 
in hopes of carrying her off under that disguise 
The whole day was spent in expectation of an 
opportunity; but in many parts of it he had 
kiud looks from a distant window, which was 
answered by a brandish of his whip, and a 
compass taken to drive round and show his 
activity, and readiness to convey her where she 
should command him. Upon the approach of 
the evening, a note was thrown into his coach 
by a porter, to acquaint him that his mistress 
and her mother should take coach exactly at 
seven o'clock; but that the mother was to be 
set down, and the daughter to go further, and 
call again. The happy minute came at last, 
when our hack had the happiness to take in 
his expected fare, attended by her mother, and 
the young lady with whom he had first met 
her. The mother was set down in the Strand, 
and her daughter ordered to call on her when 
she came from her cousin's, an hour afterward*. 
The mother was not so unskilful as not to 
have instructed her daughter whom to send 
for, and how to behave herself when her lover 
should urge her consent, We ye! know no fur- 
ther particulars, but that my young master was 
married that night at Knightsbridge, in the 
presence of his brother ;»nd two or three other 
persons; and that just before the ceremony he 
took his brother aside, and asked him to marry 
the other young woman. Now, sir, I will not 
harangue upon this adventure, but only oh 
serve, that if the education of this coUJptJUXUl 

No. 15.1 



creature had been more careful as to his ra- 
tional part, the animal life in him had not, 
perhaps, been so forward, but he might have 
Waited longer before he was a husband. How- 
ever, as the whole town will, in a day or two, 
know the names, persons, and other circum- 
stances, I think this properly lies before your 
guardianship to consider, for the admonition 
of others ; but my young master's fate is irre- 

' I am, Sir, your most humble servant.' 

No 15.] Suturdmj, March 28, 1713. 

sibi quivis, 

Sj eret idem, sudet multum, frustraque laboret, 

idem Hor. Ars Poet. 240. 

All men will try, and hope to write as well, 
And (not without much pains) be undeceived. 


I came yesterday into the parlour, where 
I found Mrs. Cornelia, my lady'e third daugh- 
ter, all alone, reading a paper, which as I after- 
wards found, contained a copy of verses upon 
love and friendship. She, I believe, appre- 
hended that I had glanced my eye npon the 
f»aper, and by the order and disposition of the 
ines might distinguish that they were poetry ; 
and therefore, with an innocent confusion in 
her face, she told me I might read them if I ' 
pleased, and so withdrew. By the hand, at 
first sight, I could not guess whether they came 
from a beau or a lady; but having put on my 
spectacles, and perused them carefully, I found 
by some peculiar modes in spelling, and a cer- 
tain negligencs in grammar, that it was a fe- 
male sonnet. I have since learned, that she 
hath a correspondent in the country, who is as 
bookish as herself; that they write to one an- 
other by the names of Astrea and Dorinda, and 
are mightily admired for their easy lines. As 
I should be loth to have a poetess in our family, 
and yet am unwilling harshly to cross the bent 
jf a young lady's genius, I chose rather to 
tnrow together some thoughts upon that kind 
of poetry which is distinguished by the name 
of Easy, than to risk the fame of Mrs. Cornelia's 
friend, by exposing her work to public view. 

I have said in a foregoing paper, that every 
thought which is agreeable to nature, and ex- 
pressed in a language suitable to it, is written 
with ease: which I offered in answer to those 
who ask for ease in all kinds of poetry ; and it 
is so far true, as it states the notion of easy 
writing in general, as that is opposed to what 
is forced or affected. But as there is an easy 
mein, and easy dress, peculiarly so called; so 
there is an easy sort of poetry. In order to 
write easily, it is necessary, in the first place, 
to think easily. Now, according to dif- 
ferent subjects, men think differently ; anger, 
fury, and the rough passions, awaken strong 
thoughts ; glory, grandeur, power, raise great 

thoughts ; love, melancho.}, solitude, and 
whatever gently touches the soul, inspire easy 

Of the thoughts suggested by these gentle 
subjects, there are some which may be set off 
by style and ornament. Others there are, 
which the more simply they are conceived, 
and the more clearly they are expressed, give 
the soul proportionably the more pleasing 
emotions. The figures of • fyle added to them 
serve only to hide a beauty, however gracefully 
they are put on, ana a«"e thrown away like 
paint upon a fine cctfiphzion. But here, not 
only liveliness of k.r cy is requisite to exhibit a 
great variety of in.hges, but ako niceness of 
judgment to cull out those, which, without 
the advantage of foreign art, will shine by 
their own intrinsic beauty. By these means, 
whatsoever seems to demand labour being re- 
jected, that only which appears to be easy and 
natural will come in ; and so art will be hid 
by art, which is the perfection of easy writing. 

I will suppose an author to be really pos- 
sessed with the passion which he writes upon, 
and then we shall see how he would acquit 
himself. This I take to he the safest way to 
form a judgment of him, since if he be not 
truly moved, he must at least work up his 
imagination as neai as possible, to resemble 
reality. I choose to instance in love, which 
is observed to have produced the most finished 
performances in *his kind. A lover will be 
full of sincerity, that he may be believed by 
his mistress ; he will, therefore, think simply; 
he will express himself perspicuously, that he 
may not perplex her; he will, therefore, write 
unaffectedly. Deep reflections are made by 
a head undisturbed; and points of wit and 
fancy are the work of a heart at ease ; these 
two dangers then, into which poets are apt to 
run, are effectually removed out of the lover's 
way. The selecting proper circumstances, and 
placing them in agreeable lights, are the finest 
secrets of all poetry ; but the recollection of 
little circumstances, is the lover's sole medita- 
tion, and relating them pleasantly the business 
of his life. Accordingly we find that the most 
celebrated authors of this rank excel in love- 
verses. Out of ten thousand instances I shall 
name one, which I think the most delicate 
and tender 1 ever saw. 

' To myself I sigh often, w itnout knowing why ; 
And when absent from Phyllis, methinks I could die. 

A man who hath ever been in love will be 
touched at the reading of these lines ; and 
every one, who now feels that passion, actually 
feels that they are true. 

From what I have advanced, it appears 
how difficult it is to write easily. But when 
easy writings fall into the hands of an ordinary 
reader, they appear to him so natural and un- 
laboured, that he immediately resolves to 



[No. 16. 

Write, .mil I.iikio that all be hath to do is to 
take nn pains. Thus he thinks, indeed simply, 
hut the thoughts, not being chosen with judic- 
ium!, arc not beautiful : he, it is true, expresses 
him>ell plainly, but flatly withal. Again, if a 
man of vivacity takes it in his head to write 
I his way, what self-denic.l must he undergo, 
when bright points of wit occur to his fancy ! 
How difficult will he find it to reject florid 
phrases, and pretty embellishments of style ! 
So true it is, that simplicity of all things is the 
hardest to be copied, and ease to be acquired 
with the greatest labour. Our family knows 
very well how ill lady Flame looked, when she 
imitated Mrs. Jane in a plain black suit. And 
I remember, when Frank Courtly was saying 
the other day, that any man might write easy, 
I only asked him, if he thought it possible 
that squire Hawthorn should ever come into a 
room as he did ? He mack me a very handsome 
bow, and answered with a smile/ Mr. Ironside, 
you have convinced me.' 

I shall conclude this paper by observing that 
pastoral poetry, which is the most considerable 
kind of easy writing, hath the oftenest been at- 
tempted with ill success, of any sort whatso- 
ever. I shall, therefore, in a little time, com 
municate my thoughts upon that subject to 
the public. 

No. 16. ] Monday, March 30, 1713. 

Nc fort6 pudori 

Sit tibi, musa lyra: solers, et cantor Apollo. 

Hor. Ars.-Poet. 406- 

Blush not to patronise the muse's skill. 

Two mornings ago a gentleman came in to 
ray lady Lizard's tea-table, who is distinguished 
in town by the good taste he is known to have 
in polite writings, especially such as relate to 
love and gallantry. The figure of the man 
had something odd and grotesque in it, though 
his air and manner were genteel and easy, and 
his wit agreeable. The ladies in complaisance 
to him turned the discourse to poetry. This 
soon gave him an occasion of producing two 
new songs to the company ; which, he said, he 
would venture to recommend as complete per- 
formances. The first, continued he, is by a 
gentleman of an unrivalled reputation in every 
ind of writing; and the second by a lady 
who does me the honour to be in love with me, 
because I am not handsome. Mrs. Annabclla 
upon this (who never lets slip an occasion of 
doing sprightly things) gives a twitch to the 
paper with a linger and a thumb, and snatches 
it out of the gentleman's hands: then casting 
her eye over it with a seeming impatience she 
read Ufl the snugs; and in a very obliging 
manner desired the gentleman would let her 
have a cop} ol them, together with his judge- 
ment upon songs in general ; that I may be 

able, said she, to judge of gallantries of this 
nature, if ever it should be my fortune to bare 
a poetical lover. The gentleman complied; 
and accordingly Mrs Annabclla, the very next 
morning, when she was at her toilet, had the 
following packet delivered to her by a spruce 
valet de chambre. 


On Belvidera's bosom lying. 

Wishing, panting, sighing, dying. 
The cold regardless maid lo move, 

With unavailing prayers I sue: 
' You first have taught me how to lort. 

Ah teach me to be happy too !' 


But she, alas ! unkindly wise, 

To all my sighs and tears replies, 
' Tis every prudent maid's concern 

Her lover's fondness lo improve ; 
If to be happy you shall learn, 

You quickly would forget to love.' 


Boast not, mistaken swain, thy art 

To please my partial eyes ; 
The charms that have subdued my heart, 

Another may despise. 

Thy face is to my humour made, 

Another it may fright : 
Perhaps, by some fond whim betrayed, 

Iu oddness I delight. 


Vain youth, to your confusion know, 

4 Tis to my love's excess 
You all your fancied beauties owe, 

Which fade as that grows less. 


For your own sake, if not for mine, 

You should preserve my fire : 
Since you, my swain, no more will shine, 

When 1 no more admire. 

By me, indeed, you are allow'd 

The wonder of your kind ; 
But be not of my judgement proud, 

Whom love has render'd blind. 

' To Mrs: Annabell a Lizard. 


'Toletyousee how absolute your commands 
are over me, and to convince you of the opinion 
1 have of your good sense. I shall without any 
preamble of compliments, give you my thoughts 
upon song-writing, in the same order as they 
have occurred to me, only allow me, in my 
own defence to say, that I do not remember 
ever to have met with any piece of criticism 
upon this subject; so that if I BIT, or seem 
singular in my opinions, you will be the more 
at liberty to differ from them, since' 1 do not 
pretend to support them by any authority. 

' In all ages, and in every nation where 
poetry has been in fashion, the tribe of sonnet- 
teers ha\e been very numerous. Every pert 
voung fellow that has a moving fancy, and the 
least jingle of verse in his head, sets up for a 

No. 16.] 



writer of songs, and resolves to immortalize 
hi* bottle or his mistress. What a world of 
insipid productions in this kind have we been 
pestered with since the revolution, to go no 
higher I This, no doubt, proceeds in a great 
measure from not forming a right judgment 
of the nature of these little compositions. It 
is true they do not require an elevation of 
bought, nor any extraordinary capacity, nor 
an extensive knowledge ; but then they de- 
mand great regularity, and the utmost nicety ; 
an exact purity of style, with the most easy 
and flowing numbers ; an elegant and unaf- 
fected turn of wit, with one uniform and simple 
design. Greater works cannot well be with- 
out some inequalities and oversights, and they 
are in them pardonable ; but a song loses all 
its lustre if it be not polished with the greatest 
accuracy. The smallest blemish :n it, like 
a flaw in a jewel, takes off the whole value of 
it. A song is, as it were, a little image in 
enamel, that requires all the nice touches of 
the pencil, a gloss and a smoothness, with those 
delicate finishing strokes, which would be su- 
perfluous and thrown away upon larger figures*, 
where the strength and boldness of a masterly 
hand gives all the grace, 

* Since you may have recourse to the French 
and English translations, you will not accuse 
me of pedantry, when I tell you that Sappho, 
Anacreon, and Horace in some of his shorter 
lyrics,are the completest models for little odes 
or sonnets. You will find them generally pur- 
suing a single thought in their songs, which 
is driven to a point, without those interrup- 
tions and deviations so frequent iu the mo- 
dern writers of this order. To do justice to 
the French, there is no living language that 
abounds so much in good songs. The genius 
of the people, and the idiom of their tongue, 
seems adapted to compositions of this sort. 
Our writers generally crowd into one song, 
materials enough for several ; and so they starve 
every thought, by endeavouring to nurse up 
more than one at a time. They give you a 
string of imperfect sonnets, instead of one 
finished piece, which is a fault Mr. Waller 
(whose beauties cannot be too much admired) 
sometimes falls into. But, of all our country- 
men; none are more defective in their songs, 
through a redundency of wit, than Dr. Donne 
and Mr. Cowley. In them, one point of wit 
flashes so fast upon another, that the reader's 
attention is dazzled by the continual sparkling 
of their imagination ; you find a new design 
started almost in every line, and you come to 
the end without the satisfaction of seeing any 
one of them executed. 

' A song should be conducted like an epi- 
gram ; and the only difference between them 
is, that one does not require the lyric numbers, 
and is usually employed upon satirical occa- 
sions ; whereas the business of the other, for 

the most part, is, to. express (as my lord Ros- 
common translates it from Horace) 

" Love's pleasing cues, an,d the free joys o* nine," 

* I shall conclude what I have to say upon 
this subject, by observing, that the French do 
very often confound the song and the epigram, 
and take the one reciprocally for the other. 
An instance of which I shall give you in a re- 
markable epigram which passes current abroad 
for an excellent song. 

" Tu paries mal par-tout de moi, 
Je dis du bien par-tout de toi ; 
Quel malheur est Ien6tre? 
L'on ne croit ni l'un nl l'autrc." 

' For the satisfaction of such of your friends 
as may not understand the original, I shall 
venture to translate it after my fashion, so as 
to keep strictly to the turn of thought, at the 
expense of losing something in the poetry and 

' Thou speakest always ill of me, 
I speak always well of thee : 
But spite of all our noise and pother, 
The world belieyes nor one nor t'other.' 

* Thus, madam, I have endeavoured to com 
ply with your commands ; not out of vanity of 
erecting myself into a critic, but out of an 
earnest desire of being thought, upon all occa- 
sions, ' Your most obedient servant.' 

N^o. 17.] Tuesday, March 31, 1713. 

— Minimumque libidine peccant. — Juv. Sat. vi. 134. 
Lust is the smallest sin they own. Drydeu. 

If it were possible to bear up against the 
force of ridicule, which fashion has brought 
upon people for acknowledging a veneration 
for the most sacred things, a man might say 
that the time we now are in is set apart for 
humiliation ; and all our actions should at 
present more particularly tend that way. I re- 
member about thirty years ago an eminent 
divine, who was also most exactly well-bred, 
told his congregation at Whitehall, that if they 
did not vouchsafe to give their lives a new turn, 
they must certainly go to a place which he did 
not think fit to name in that courtly audience. 
It is with me as with that gentleman. I would, 
if possible, represent the errors of life, espe- 
cially those arising from what we call gallantry, 
in such a manner as the people of pleasure 
may read me. In this case I must not be 
rough to gentlemen and ladies, but speak of 
sin as a gentleman. It might not perhaps be 
amiss, if, therefore, I should call my present 
precaution, A Criticism upon Fornication ; and, 
by representing the unjust taste they have who 
affect that way of pleasure, bring a distaste 
upon it among all those who are judicious in 
their satisfactions. I will be bold then to lay 
down for a rule, that he who follows this 
kind of gratification, ""ives up much greater 



[No. 17. 

delight by pursuing it, than he can possibly 
enjoy from it. As to the common women and 
the stews, there is no one but will allow this 
assertion at lirst sight; but if it will appear, 
.hat they who deal with those of the sex who 
are less profligate, descend to greater base- 
nesses than if they frequented brothels, it 
should, methinks, bring this iniquity under 
some discountenance. The rake who, without 
sense of character or decency, wallows and 
ranges in common houses, is guilty no farther 
than of prostituting himself, and exposing his 
health to diseases: but the man of gallantry 
cannot pursue his pleasures without treachery 
to some man he ought to love, and making 
despicable the woman he admires. To live in 
a continual deceit ; to reflect upon the dis- 
honour you do some husband, father, or brother, 
who does not deserve this of you, and whom 
you would destroy did you know they did the 
like towards you, are circumstances which pall 
the appetite, and give a man of any sense of 
honour very painful mortification. What more 
need be said against a gentleman's delight, 
than that he himself thinks himself abase man 
in pursuing it; when it is thoroughly consi- 
dered, he gives up bis very being as a man of 
integrity who commences gallant ? Let him or 
her who is guilty this way but weigh the matter 
a little, and the criminal will find that those 
whom they most esteemed are of a sudden be- 
come the most disagreeable companions : nay, 
their good qualities are grown odious and pain- 
ful. It is said, people who have the plague 
have a delight in communicating the infection : 
in like manner, the sense of shame, which is 
never wholly overcome, inclines the guilty this 
way to contribute to the destruction of others. 
And women are pleased to introduce more 
women into the same condition, though they 
can have no other satisfaction from it, than 
that the infamy is shared among greater num- 
bers, which they flatter themselves eases the 
burden of each particular person. 

It is a most melancholy consideration, that 
for momentary sensations of joy, obtained by 
stealth, men are forced into a constraint of all 
their words and actions in the general and 
ordinary occurrences of life. It is an impossi- 
oility in this case to be faithful to one person, 
without being false to all the rest of the world. 
The gay figures in which poetical men of loose 
morals have placed this kind of stealth are but 
feeble consolations, when a man is inclined 
to soliloquy or meditation upon his past life; 
flashes of wit can promote joy, but they cannot 
allay grief. 

Disease, sickness, and misfortune, are what 
all men living are liable c>; it is therefore 
ridiculous atxl mad to pursue, instead of shun- 
ning, what must add to our anguish under 
disease, sickness, or misfortune. It is possible 
there may be f ose bloc d" ure too warm 

to admit of these compunctions: if there are 
such, I am sure they are laying up store for 
them: but I have better hopes of those who 
have not yet erased the impressions and advan- 
tages of a good education and fortune; thej 
may be assured, ' that whoever wholly give 
themselves up to lust, will find it the leasl 
fault they are guilty of.' 

Irreconcilable hatred to those they have 
injured, mean shifts to cover their offences, 
envy and malice to the innocent, and a general 
sacrifice of all that is good-natured or praise- 
worthy when it interrupts them, will possess all 
their faculties, and make them utter strangers 
to the noble pleasures which flow from honour 
and virtue. Happy are they, who from the 
visitation of sickness, or any other accident, 
are awakened from a course which leads to 
an insensibility of the greatest enjoyments in 
human life. 

A French author, giving an account of a 
very agreeable man, in whose character he 
mingles good qualities and infirmities, rather 
than vices and virtues, tells the following story. 
' Our kinght,' says he, ' was pretty much 
addicted to the most fashionable of all faults. 
He had a loose rogue for a lackey, not a little 
in his favour, though he had no other name 
for him when he spoke of him but " the 
rascal," or, to him, but " sirrah." One morn- 
ing when he was dressing, " Sirrah," says he, 
" be sure you bring home this evening a pretty 
wench." The fellow was a person of diligence 
and capacity, and had for some time addressed 
himself to a decayed old gentlewoman, who 
had a young maiden to her daughter, beauteous 
as an angel, not yet sixteen years of age. The 
mother's extreme poverty, and the insinuations 
of this artful lackey concerning the soft dispo- 
sition and generosity of his master, made her 
consent to deliver up her daughter. But many 
were the entreaties and representations of the 
mother to gain her child's consent to an action, 
which she said she abhorred, at the same time 
she exhorted her to it; " but child," says she, 
can you see your mother die for hunger?" 
The virgin argued no longer, but bursting into 
tears, said she would go any where. The lackey 
conveyed her with great obsequiousness and 
secrecy to his master's lodging, ami placed her 
in a commodious apartment till he came home. 
The knight, who knew his man never failed 
of bringing in his prey, indulged his genius at 
a banquet, and was in high humour at an en- 
tertainment with ladies, expecting to be re- 
ceived in the evening by one as agreeable as 
the best of them. When he came home, his 
lackey met him with a saucy and joyful fami- 
liarity, crying out, " She is as handsome as an 
angel (for there is no other simile on these 
occasions,) but the tender fool has wept till 
her eyes are swelled and bloated ; for she is a 
maid and a gentlewoman." With that he 

No. l/.J 



conducted his master to the room where she 
was, and retired. The knight, when he saw 
her bathed in tears, said in some surprise, 
" Don't you know, young woman, why you 
are brought hither ? The unhappy maid fell 
on her knees, and with many interruptions of 
sighs and tears, said to him " 1 know, alas ! 
too well why J am brought hither; my mother, 
to get bread for her and myself, has sent me 
to do what you pleased ; but would it would 
please Heaven I could die, before I am added 
to the number of those miserable wretches who 
live without honour !" With this reflection she 
wept anew, and beat her bosom. The knight, 
stepping back from her, said, " I am not so 
abandoned as to hurt your innocence against 
your will.*' 

' The novelty of the accident surprised him 
into virtue ; and, covering the young maid 
with a cloak, he led her to a relation's house, 
to whose care he recommended her for that 
night. The next morning he sent for her 
mother, and asked her if her daughter was a 
maid ? The mother assured him, that when 
she delivered her to his servant, she was a 
stranger to man. " Are not you then," re- 
plied the knight, " a wicked woman to contrive 
the debauchery of your own child?" She held 
down her face with fear and shame, and in her 
confusion uttered some broken words concern- 
ing her poverty. " Far be it," said the gen- 
tleman, " that you should relieve yourself from 
want by a much greater evil : your daughter is 
a fine young creature ; do you know of none 
that ever spoke of her for a wife ?" The mother 
answered, " There is an honest man in our 
neighbourhood that loves her, who has often 
said he would marry her with two hundred 
pounds." The knight ordered his man to 
reckon out that sum, with an addition of fifty 
to buy the bride clothes, and fifty more as a 
help to her mother.' 

I appeal to all the gallants in the town, whe- 
ther possessing all the beauties in Great Britain 
could give half the pleasure as this young gen- 
tleman had in the reflection of having relieved 
a miserable parent from guilt and poverty, an 
innocent virgin from public shame, and be- 
stowing a virtuous wife upon an honest man ? 

As all men who are guilty this way have 
not fortunes or opportunities for making 
such atonements for their vices, yet all men 
may do what is certainly in their power at this 
good season. For my part, I do not care how 
ridiculous the mention of it may be, provided 
I hear it has any good consequence upon the 
wretched, that I recommend the most aban- 
doned and miserable of mankind to the charity 
of all in prosperous conditions under the same 
guilt with those wretches. The Lock hospital 
in Kent street, Southwark, for men; that in 
Kingsland for women, js a receptacle for all 
sufferers mangled by this iniquity. Penitents 

should in their own hearts take upon th*m all 
the shame and sorrow they have escaped ; and 
it would become them to make an oblation for 
their crimes, by charity to those upon whom 
vice appears in that utmost misery and de- 
formity, which they themselves are free from 
by their better fortune, rather than greater 
innocence. It would quicken our compassion 
in this case, if we considered there may be 
objects there, who would now move horror and 
loathing, that we have once embraced with 
transport: and as we are men of honour (for 
I must not speak as we are Christians) let 
us not desert our friends for the loss of their 

No. 18.] Wednesday, April i, 1713. 

Animaeque capaces 

Mortis - 

Souls, undismay'd by death. 


The prospect of death is so gloomy and dis- 
mal, that if it were constantly before our eyes, 
it would embitter all the sweets of life. The 
gracious Author of our being hath therefore so 
formed us, that we are capable of many pleasing 
sensations and reflections, and meet with so 
many amusements and solicitudes, as divert 
our thoughts from dwelling upon an evil, 
which, by reason of its seeming distance, makes 
but languid impressions upon the mind. But 
how distant soever the time of our death may 
be, since it is certain that we must die, it is 
necessary to allot some portion of our life to 
consider the end of it ; and it is highly con- 
venient to fix some stated times to meditate 
upon the final period of our existence here. 
The principle of self-love, as we are men, wiL 
make us inquire, what is like to become of u 
after our dissolution ; and our conscience, a* 
we are Christians, will inform us, that accord- 
ing to the good or evil of our actions here, we 
shall be translated to the mansions of eternal 
bliss or misery. When this is seriously weighed, 
we must think it madness to be unprepared 
against the black moment : but when we re- 
flect that perhaps that black moment may be 
to-night, how watchful ought we to be ! 

I was wonderfully affected with a discourse 
I had lately with a clergyman of my acquaint- 
ance upon this head, which was to this effect : 
' The consideration,' said the good man, * that 
my being is precarious, moved me many years 
ago to make a resolution, which 1 have dili- 
gently kept, and to which I owe the greatest 
satisfaction that a mortal man can enjoy. 
Every night before I address myself in private 
to my Creator, I lay my hand upon my heart, 
and ask myself, whether if God should require 
my soul of me this night, 1 could hope for 
mercy from him ? The bitter agonies I under- 
went in this my first acquaintance with myself 



[No. 19. 

Dtferri so far from throwing me into despair of 
i'.at men v which is over all God's works, that 
they rather proved motives to greater circum- 
spection id my future eonduct. The oftener 
1 exercised myself in meditations of this kind, 
the less was my anxiety; and by making the 
thoughts of death familiar, what was at first 
so terrible and shocking, is become the sweetest 
of my enjoyments. These contemplations have 
indeed made me serious, but not sullen ; nay, 
they are so f »r from having soured my temper, 
that as I have a mind perfectly composed, and 
a secret spring of joy in my heart, so my con- 
versation is pleasant, and my countenance se- 
rene ; I taste all the innocent satisfactions of 
life pure and sincere; I have no share in plea- 
sures that leave a sting behind them, nor am 
I cheated with that kind of mirth, "in the 
midst of which there is heaviness."' 

Of all the professions of men, a soldier's, 
chiefly, should put him upon this religious vi- 
gilance. His duty exposes him to such hazards, 
that the evil which to men in other stations 
may seem far distant, to him is instant, and 
ever before his eyes. The consideration, that 
what men in a martial life purchase is gained 
with danger and labour, and must perhaps be 
parted with very speedily, is the cause of much 
licence and riot. As moreover it is necessary 
to keep up the spirits of those who are to en- 
counter the most terrible dangers, offences of 
this nature meet with great indulgence. But 
there is a courage better founded tban this 
animal fury. The secret assurance, that all 
is right within, that if he falls in battle, he 
will the more speedily he crowned with true 
glory, will add strength to a warrior's arm, and 
intrepidity to his heart. 

One of the most successful stratagems 
whereby Mahomet became formidable, was the 
assurance that impostor gave his votaries, that 
whoever was slain in battle should be imme- 
diately conveyed to that luxurious paradise his 
wanton fancy had invented. The ancient 
Druids taught a doctrine which had the same 
effect, though with this difference from Ma- 
homet's, that the souls of the slain should 
transmigrate into other bodies, and in them 
he rewarded according to the degrees of their 
merit. This is told by Lucan with his usual 

' You leach souls, from fleshy chains unbound, 

Seek not pale shades and Erebus profound, 

Bill fleeting hence to Other regions stray, 

OtlC* more to mix with animated clay ; 

1 1. ,i ' death's a gap (if men may trust the lore) 

Twlxt lives In hind and ages yet before. 

A blest mistake! which fat. ?» dread power disarms; 

a, id spars ii^ vbt'riei on t<> war's alarms; 

Lavish of lite, they ru.«h wilii licicc delight 
Amid-t the leglulISi and provoke the fight ; 
o'i r-matchlng death, aud freely east away 
'i i;.it loan ot i ; ii- 1 «■ gods an- bound to p*y.' 

Our gallant countryman, sir Philip Sidney, 
fraJ a noble example of courage and devotion. 

I am particularly pleased to find that he hath 
translated the whole book of Psalms into Eng- 
lish verse. A friend of mine informs me, that 
he hath the manuscript by him, which is said 
in the title to have been done, ' By the most 
nohle and virtuous Gent. Sir Philip Sidney, 
Knight.' They having been never printed. I 
shall present the public with one of them, 
which my correspondent assures me he bath 
faithfully transcribed, and wherein I have taken 
the liberty only to alter one word. 



!Nifjh seated where the liver flows, 

That watt reth Babel's thankful plain, 
Which then our tears, in peailed rows, 

Did help to water with the rain : 
The thought of Sion bred snch woes, 
That though our harps we did retain 
Yet useless and untouched there, 
On willows only hang'd they were. 

Now while our harps were hanged so, 
The men whose captives then we lay, 
Did on our griefs insulting go, 

And more to grieve us thus did say ; 
You that of music make such show, 
Come sing us now a Sion's lay : 
Oh no I we have nor voice nor hand 
For such a song in such a land. 

Though far I be, sweet Sion hill, 

In foreign soil exil'd from thee, 
Yet let my hand forget his skill 

If ever thou forgotten be ; 
Am\ let my tongue fast glewed still 
Unto my roof, lie mute in hie ; 
If thy neglect within me sprint-. 
Or aught 1 do but Bated) sing. 

But thon, O Lord, shalt not forget 
To quit the pains of Edom's race. 
Who causelessly, yet hotly set 

Thy holy city to deface, 
Did thus the bloody victors whet, 
What time they enter'd first the piace, 
■ Down, down with it at any baud, 
Make all a waste, let nothing sta:id. 


And Babylon, that didst us waste, ♦ 

Thyself shalt one day wasted be : 

And happy lie, who what thou hast 

Unto us done, shall do to thee ; 
Like bitterness shall make thee taste, 
Like woeful objects make thee sec : 
Yea, happy who thy little ones 
Shall take and dash against the stones. 

No. 19.] Thursday, April 2, 1713. 

Nc te semper inops agitet vexetqnc cupido ; 
Nc pavor, et rerum medku liter milium spec 

Ilor. Lib. 1. Ep. xviii. 98. 

Lest avarice, itill poor, disturb thine case ; 

Or fear should shake, or cares thy mind abuse, 

( )i ai di lit hope for things of little ft* Creech. 

1 r was prettily observed by somebody con* 
ceruitig the great vices, that there are three 
which give pleasure, as covctousness, gluttony, 

* Dr. Donne's Poena. &c. E's. r>7, edit. 1719. 

No. 1.9.] 



and lust ; one which tastes of nothing but pain, 
as envy ; the rest have a" mixture of pleasure 
and pain, as anger and pride. But when a 
man considers the state of his own mind, about 
which every member of the Christian world is 
supposed at this time to be employed, he will 
find that the best defence against vice is pre- 
serving the worthiest part of his own spirit pure 
from any great offence against it. There is a 
magnanimity which makes us look upon our- 
selves with disdain, after we have been betrayed 
by sudden desire, opportunity of gain, the ab- 
sence of a person who excels us, the fault of a 
servant, or the ill fortune of an adversary, into 
the, gratification of lust, covetousness, envy, 
rage, or pride ; when the more sublime part 
of our souls is kept alive, and we have not re- 
peated iirfrrmities till they are become vicious 

The vice of covetousness is what enters 
deepest into the soul of any other; and you 
may have seen men, otherwise the most agree- 
able creatures in the world, so seized with the 
desire of being richer, that they shall startle 
at indifferent things, and live in a continual" 
guard and watch over themselves from a re- 
mote fear of expense. No pious man can be 
so circumspect in the care of his conscience, 
as the covetous man is in that of his pocket. 

If a man would preserve his own spirit, and 
his natural approbation of higher and more 
worthy pursuits, he could never fall into this 
littleness, but his mind would be still open to 
honour and virtue, in spite of infirmities and 
relapses. But what extremely discourages me 
in my precautions as a Guardian, is, that there 
is a universal defection from the admiration 
of virtue. Riches and outward splendour have 
taken up the place of it ; and no man thinks he 
is mean, if he is not poor. But alas this des- 
picable spirit debases our very being, and makes 
our passions take a new turn from their na- 
tural bent. 

It was a cause of great sorrow and melan- 
choly to me some nights ago at a play, to see 
a crowd in the habits of the gentry of England, 
stupid to the noblest sentiments we have. The 
circumstance happened in the scene of distress 
betwixt Percy and Anna Bullen. One of the 
centinels, who stood on the stage to prevent 
the disorders which the most unmannerly race 
of young men that ever were seen in any age 
frequently raise in public assemblies, upon 
Percy's beseeching to be heard, burst into 
tears ; upon which the greatest part of the 
audience fell into a loud and ignorant laughter; 
which others, who were touched with the liberal 
compassion in the poor fellow, could hardly 
suppress by their clapping. But the man, 
without the least confusion or shame in his 
countenance for what had happeued, wiped 
away the tears and was stiil intent upon the 
play. The distress still rlsiiig, the suldier was 

so much moved, that lie was obliged to turn 
his face from the audience, to their no small 
merriment. Percy had the gallantry to take 
notice of his honest heart; and, as I am told, 
gave him a crown to help him in his affliction. 
It is certain this poor fellow, in his humble 
condition, had such a lively compassion as a 
sowl unwedded to the world; were it otherwise, 
gay lights and dresses, with appearances of 
people of fashion and wealth, to which his 
fortune could not be familiar, would have 
taken up all his attention and admiration. 

It is every thing that is praise-worthy, as 
well as pure religion (according to a book too 
sacred for me to quote,) ' to visit the father- 
less and widows in their affliction, and to keep 
himself unspotted from the world.' Every step 
that a man makes beyond moderate and rea- 
sonable provision, is taking so much from the 
worthiness of his own spirit; and he that is 
entirely set upon making a fortune, is all that 
while undoing the man. He must grow deaf 
to the wretched, estrange himself from the 
agreeable, learn hardness of heart, disrelish 
every thing that is noble, and terminate all m 
his despicable self. Indulgence in anyone im- 
moderate desire or appetite engrosses the whole 
creature, and his life is sacrificed to that one 
desire or appetite ; but how much otherwise is 
it with those that preserve alive in them some- 
thing that adorns their condition, and shows 
the man, whether a prince or a beggar, above 
his fortune ! 

I have just now recorded a foot-soldier for 
the politest man in a British audience, from 
the force of nature, untainted with the singu- 
larity of an ill-appiied education. A good spirit 
that is not abused, can add new glories to the 
highest state in the world, as well as give 
beauties to the meanest. I shall exemplify 
this]by inserting a prayer of Harry the Fourth 
of France just before a battle, in which he ob- 
tained an entire victory. 

' O Lord of hosts, who canst see through the 
thickest veil and closet disguise, who viewest 
the bottom of my heart, and the deepest de- 
signs of my enemies, who hast in thy hands, as 
well as before thine eyes, all the events which 
concern human life; if thou knowest that my 
reign will promote thy glory and the safety of 
thy people; if thou knowest that I have no 
other ambition in my soul, but to advance the 
honour of thy holy name, and the good of this 
state ; favour, O great God, the justice of my 
arms, and reduce all the rebels to acknowledge 
him whom thy sacred decrees, and the order 
of a lawful succession, have made their sove- 
reign : but, if thy good providence has ordered 
it otherwise, and thou seest that I should prove 
one of those kings whom thou givest in thine 
anger, take from me, O merciful God, my life 
and my crown, make me this day a sacrifice 
to tbv will, let rav death end the calamities of 



[No. 20. 

France, ami let my blood be the last that is 
spilt in this quarrel.' 

The king uttered this generous prayer in a 
Voice, and with a countenance, that inspired 
all who heard and beheld him with like mag- 
nanimity : then turning to the squadron, at 
the head of which he designed to charge, ■ My 
fellow-soldiers,' said he, ' as you run my for- 
tune, so do I yours; your safety consists in 
keeping well your ranks ; but if the heat of the 
action should force you to disorder, think of 
nothing but rallying again ; if you lose the sight 
of your colours and standards, look round for 
the white plume in my beaver; you shall see 
it wherever you are, and it shall lead you to 
glory and to victory.* 

The magnanimity of this illustrious prince 
was supported by a firm of reliance on Provi- 
dence, which inspired him with a contempt of 
life, and an assurance of conquest. His gener- 
ous scorn of royalty, but as it consisted with 
the service of God, and good of his people, is 
an instance, that the mind of man, when it is 
well disposed, is always ahove its condition, 
even though it be that of a monarch. 

No. 20.J Fridaij, April 3, 1713. 

Semper et iiifirmi est animi exigniqoe voluptas 
Ullio Juv. Sat. xiii. 180. 

Revenge, which still we find 

The weakest frailty of a feeble mind. Creech. 

All gallantry and fashion, one would ima- 
gine, should rise out of the religion and laws 
of that nation wherein they prevail; but, alas! 
in this kingdom, gay characters, and those 
which lead in the pleasure and inclinations of 
the fashionable world, are such as are readiest 
to practise crimes the most abhorrent to nature, 
and contradictory to our faith. A Christian 
and a gentleman are made inconsistent appel- 
lations of the same person ; you are not to 
expect eternal life, if you do not forgive in- 
juries; and your mortal life is uncomfortable 
if you are not ready to commit a murder in 
resentment for an affront : for good sense as 
well as religion is so utterly banished the 
world, that men glory in their very passions, 
and pursue trifles ivith the utmost vengeance ; 
so little do they know, that to forgive is the 
most arduous pitch human nature can arrive 
at. A coward has often fought, a coward has 
often conquered, but ' a coward never forgave.' 
The power of doing that flows from a strength 
of soul conscious of its own force ; whence it 

draws a certain sail ty, which its enemy is not 
of consideration enough to interrupt; for it is 

peculiar in the make of a brave man to have 
bis friends seem much ahove him, his enemies 

much below him. 

Yet though the neglect of our enemies may, 

so intense a forgiveness as the love of them, i* 
not to be in the least accounted for by the 
force of constitution, but is a more spiritual 
and refined moral, introduced by him who died 
for those that persecuted him ; yet very justly 
delivered to us, when we consider ourselves 
offenders, and to be forgiven on the reasonable 
terms of forgiving ; for who can ask what he 
will not bestow, especially when that gift is 
attended with a redemption from the crudest 
slavery to the most acceptable freedom ? For 
when the mind is in contemplation of revenge, 
all its thoughts must surely be tortured with 
the alternate pangs of rancour, envy, hatred, 
and indignation ; and they who profess a sweet 
in the enjoyment of it, certainly never felt the 
consummate bliss of reconciliation. At such 
an instant the false ideas we received unravel, 
and the shyness, the distrust, the secret scorns, 
and all the base satisfactions men had in each 
other's faults and misfortunes, are dispelled, 
and their souls appear in their native white- 
ness, without the least streak - of that malice 
or distaste which sullied them : and perhaps 
those very actions, which, when we looked at 
them in the oblique glance with which hatred 
doth always see things, were horrid and odious; 
when observed with honest and open eyes, are 
beauteous and ornamental. 

But if men are averse to us in the most vio- 
lent degree, and we can never bring them to 
an amicable temper, then indeed we are to 
exert an obstinate opposition to them ; and 
never let the malice of our enemies have so 
effectual an advantage over us, as to escape 
our good-will. For the neglected and despised 
tenets of religion are so generous, and in so 
transcendent and heroic a manner disposed for 
public good, that it is not in a man's power to 
avoid their influence ; for the Christian is as 
much inclined to your service when your 
enemy, as the moral man when your friend. 

But the followers of a crucified Saviour must 
root out of their hearts all sense that there is 
any thing great and noble in pride or haughti- 
ness of spirit ; yet it will be very difficult to fix 
that idea in our souls, except we can think as 
worthily of ourselves, when we practise the 
contrary virtues. We must learn, and be con- 
vinced, that there is something sublime and 
heroic in true meekness and humility, for they 
arise from a great, not a groveling idea of 
things ; for as certainly as pride proceeds from 
a mean and narrow view of the little advan- 
tages about a man's self, so meekness is founded 
on the extended contemplation of the place we 
bear in the universe, and a just observation 
how little, how empty, how wavering, are our 
deepest resolves and counsels. And as, to a 
well taught mind, when you have said a 
haughty and proud man, you have spoke a 
nil row conception, little spirit, and despicable 
carriage ; so when you have said a man is meek 

No. 20.] 



and humble, you have acquainted us that such 
a person has arrived at the hardest task in the 
world, in a universal observation round him, 
to be quick to see his own faults, and other 
men's virtues, and at the height of pardoning 
every man sooner than himself; you have also 
given us to understand, that to treat him 
kindly, sincerely, and [respectfully, is but a 
mere justice to him that is ready to do us the 
same offices. This temper of soul keeps us 
always awake to a just sense of things, teaches 
us that we are as well akin to worms as to 
angels; and as nothing is above these, so is 
nothing below those. It keeps our under- 
standing tight about us, so that all things 
appear to us great or little, as they are in na- 
ture and the sight of heaven, not as they are 
gilded or sullied by accident or fortune. 

It were to be wished that all men of sense 
would think it worth their while to reflect upon 
the dignity of Christian virtues ; it would pos- 
sibly enlarge their souls into such a contempt 
of what fashion and prejudice have made ho- 
nourable, that their duty, inclination, and 
honour, would tend the same way, and make 
all their lives a uniform act of religion and 

As to the great catastrophe of this day, on 
which the Mediator of the world suffered the 
greatest indignities and death itself for the sal- 
vation of mankind, it would be worth gentle- 
men's consideration, whether from his example 
it would not be proper to kill all inclinations 
to revenge ; and examine whether it would 
not be expedient to receive new notions of 
what is great and honourable. 

This is necessary against the day wherein 
he who died ignominiously for us ' shall descend 
from heaven to be our judge, in majesty and 
glory.' How will the man who shall die by 
the sword of pride and wrath, and in conten- 
tion with his brother, appear before him, at 
f whose presence nature shall be in an agony, 
and the great and glorious bodies of light be 
obscured ; when the sun shall be darkened, 
the moon turned into blood, and all the powers 
of heaven shaken ; when the heavens them- 
selves shall pass away with a great noise, and 
the elements dissolve with fervent heat ; when 
the earth also, and all the works that are 
therein, shall be burnt up !' 

What may justly damp in our minds the di- 
abolical madness, which promps us to decide 
our petty animosities by the hazard of eternity, 
is, that in that one act, the criminal does not 
only highly offend, but forces himself into the 
presence of his judge ; that is certainly his case 
who dies in a duel. I cannot but repeat it, he 
that dies in a duel knowingly offends God, and 
in that very action rushes into his offended 
presence. Is it possible for the heart of man 
to conceive a more terrible image than that of 
a departed spirit in this condition ? Could we 

but suppose it has just left its body, and struck 
with the terrible reflection, that to avoid the 
laughter of fools, and being the by-word of 
idiots, it has now precipitated itself into the 
din of demons, and the howlings of eternal 
despair, how willingly now would it suffer the 
imputation of fear and cowardice, to have one 
moment left not to tremble in vain ! 

The scriptures are full of pathetical and 
warm pictures of the condition of a happy or 
miserable futurity ; and I am confident, that 
the frequent reading of them would make the 
way to a happy eternity so agreeable and 
pleasant, that he who tries it will find the dif- 
ficulties, which he before suffered in shunning 
the allurements of vice, absorbed in the pleasure 
he will take in the pursuit of virtue : and how 
happy must that mortal be, who thinks himself 
in the favour of an Almighty, and can think of 
death as a thing which it is an infirmity not to 
desire ? 

No. 21.] Saturday, April 4, 1713. 

Fungar inani 

Firs. Km. vi. 885. 


An empty office I'll discharge. 

Doctor Tillotson, in his discourse 
cerningthe Danger of all kno 

n sin, both from 
the light of nature and revelation, after having 
given us the description of the last day out of 
holy writ, has this remarkable passage : 

* I appeal to any man, whether this be not 
a representation of things very proper and suit- 
able to that great day, wherein he who made 
the world shall come to judge it ? And whether 
the wit of man ever devised any thing so awful, 
and so agreeable to the majesty of God, and 
the solemn judgment of the whole world ? The 
description which Virgil makes of the Elysian 
Fields, and the Infernal Regions, how infinitely 
do they fall short of the majesty of the holy 
scripture, and the description there made of 
heaven and hell, and of the great and terrible 
day of the Lord ! so that in comparison they 
are childish and trifling ; and yet perhaps he 
had the most regular and most governed ima- 
gination of any man that [ever lived, and ob- 
served the greatest decorum in his characters 
and descriptions. But who can declare the 
great things of God, but he to whom God shall 
reveal them ?' 

This observation was worthy a most polite 
man, and ought to be of authority with all who 
are such, so far as to examine whether he spoke 
that as a man of a just taste and judgment, or 
advanced it merely for the service of his doc- 
trine as a clergyman. 

I am very confident whoever reads the gos- 
pels, with a heart as much prepared in favour 
of them as when he sits down to Virgil or 
Homer, will find no passage there which is not 
told with more natural force than any episode 



[No. 2J. 

in either of those wits, which were the chief of 
mere mankind. 

The la>t thing I read was the twenty-fourth 
chapter of St. Luke, which gives an account 
of the manner in which our blessed Saviour, 
atu r bis resurrection, joined with two disciples 
OB the way to Emmaus as an ordinary traveller, 
and took the privilege as such to inquire of 
them, what occasioned a sadness he observed 
in their countenances ; or whether it was from 
any public cause ? Their wonder that any man 
so near Jerusalem should be a stranger to what 
had passed there ; their acknowledgement to 
one they met accidentally, that they had be- 
lieved in this prophet ; and that now, the third 
day after his death, they were in doubt as to 
their pleasing hope, which occasioned the hea- 
viness he took notice of ; are all represented 
in a style which men of letters call ' the great 
and noble simplicity.' The attention of the 
disciples when he expounded the scriptures 
concerning himself, his offering to take his 
leave of them, their fondness of his stay, and 
the manifestation of the great guest whom they 
had entertained while he was yet at meat with 
them, are all incidents whieh wonderfully 
please the imagination of a Christian reader; 
and give to him something of that touch of 
mind which the brethren felt, when they said 
one to another, ' Did not our hearts burn within 
us, while he talked with us by the way, and 
while he opened to us the scriptures ?' 

I am very far from pretending to treat these 
matters as they deserve ; but I hope those 
gentlemen who are qualified for it, and called 
t> it, will forgive me, and consider that I speak 
as a mere secular man, impartially considering 
the effect which the sacred writings will have 
upon the soul of an intelligent reader ; and it 
is some argument, that a thing is the imme- 
diate work of God, when it so infinitely trans- 
cends all the labours of man. When 1 look 
upon Raphael's picture of our Saviour appearing 
to his disciples after his resurrection, I cannot 
but think the just disposition of that piece has 
in it the force of many volumes on the subject. 
The evangelists are easily distinguished from 
the rest by a passionate zeal and love which 
the painter has thrown in their faces ; the 
huddled group of those who stand most distant 
are admirable representations of men abashed 
with their late unbelief and hardness of heart. 
And such endeavours as this of Raphael, and of 
all men not called to the altar, are collateral 
helps not to be despised by the ministers of the 

It is with this view that I presume upon sub- 
jects of this kind ; and men may take up this 
paper, and be ( atched by an admonition under 
the disguise of a diversion. 

All the arts and sciences ought to be cm- 

ployed in one confederacy against the prevail- 
ing torrent of vice' and impiety; and it will be 

no small step in the progress of reli; -on, if it is 
as evident as it mi; lit to be, that fee. wants tlie 
best taste and best sense a man can have, who is 
cold to the ' beauty of holiness.' 

As for my part, when I have happened to 
attend the corpse of a friend to his interment, 
and have seen a graceful man at the entrance 
of a church-yard, who became the diguity of 
his function, and assumed an authority which 
is natural to truth, pronounce' I am the re- 
surrection and the life; he that believetb in 
me, though he were dead yet shall he live; 
and whosoever liveth and believetb in me shall 
never die : I say, upon such an occasion, the 
retrospect upon past actions between the de- 
ceased whom I followed and myself, together 
with the many little circumstances that strike 
upon the soul, and alternately give grief and 
consolation, have vanished like a dream ; and 
I have been relieved as by a voice from heaven, 
when the solemnity has proceeded, and after a 
long pause I again heard the servant of God 
utter, ' I know that my Redeemer liveth, and 
that he shall stand at the latter day upon the 
earth ; and though worms destroy this body, yet 
in my flesh shall { see God ; whom I shall see 
for myself, and my eyes shall behold, and not 
another.' How have I been raised above this 
world and all its regards, and how well pre- 
pared to receive the next sentence which the 
holy man has spoken ! ' We brought nothing 
into this world, and it is certain we can carry 
nothing out ; the Lord gave, and the Lord 
hath taken away, blessed be the name of the 
Lord V 

There .are, I know, men of heavy temper 
without genius, who can read these expressions 
of scripture with as much indifference as they 
do the rest of these loose papers, However, 
I will not despair but to bring men of wit into 
a love and admiration of sacred writings ; and, 
as old as I am, I promise myself to see the 
day when it shall be as much in fashion among 
men of politeness to admire a rapture of Saint 
Paul, as any fine expression in Virgil or Horace ; 
and to see a well-dressed young man produce 
an evangelist out of his pocket, and be no 
more out of countenance than if it were a 
classic printed by Elzevir. 

It is a gratitude that ought to be paid to 
Providence by men of distinguished faculties, to 
praise and adore the author of their being with 
a spirit suitable to those faculties, and rouse 
slower men by their words, actions, and wri- 
tings, to a participation of their transports and 

No. J'.'.j Monday, April 6, 1713. 

Rma milii et ligni plareant in vallibus amncs, 
Hiiiiiint amen sylvasquc ioglorius — 

Firg. Georg. ii. 4i£. 

No. 22.] 



My next desire is, void or care and strife, 

To lead a soft, secure, inglorious life, 

A country cottage near a crystal flood, 

A winding valley, and a lofty wood. Dryden. 

Pastoral poetry not only amuses the fancy 
the most delightfully, but is likewise more in- 
debted to it than any other sort whatsoever. 
It transports us into a kind of fairy-land, where 
our ears are soothed with the melody of birds, 
bleating- flocks, and purling- streams ; our eyes 
inchanted with flowery meadows and springing 
greens ; we are laid under cool shades, and 
entertained with all the sweets and freshness of 
nature. It is a dream, it is a vision, which we 
wish may be real, and we believe that it is true. 

Mrs. Cornelia Lizard's head was so far turned 
with these imaginations, when we were last in 
the country, that she lost her rest by listening 
to nightingales ; she kept a pair of turtles 
cooing in her chamber, and had a tame lamb 
running after her up and down the house. I 
used all gentle methods to bring her to herself; 
as having had a design heretofore of turning 
shepherd myself, when I read Virgil or Theo- 
critus at Oxford. But as my age and experience 
have armed me against any temptation to the 
pastoral life, I can now with the greater safety 
consider it ; and shall lay down such rules, as 
those of my readers, who have the aforesaid 
design, ought to observe, if they would follow 
the steps of the shepherds and shepherdesses 
of ancient times. 

In order to form a right judgment of pastoral 
poetry, -it will be necessary to cast back our 
eyes on the first ages of the world. For since 
that way of life is not now in being, we must 
inquire into the manner of it when it actually 
did exist. Before mankind was formed into 
large societies, or cities were built, and com- 
merce established, the wealth of the world 
consisted chiefly in flocks and herds. The 
tending of these, we find to have been the 
employment of the first princes, whose subjects 
were sheep and oxen, and their dominions the 
adjoining vales. As they lived in great afflu- 
ence and ease, we may presume that they en- 
joyed such pleasures as that condition afforded, 
free and uninterrupted. Their manner of life 
gave them vigour of body and serenity of mind. 
The abundance they were possessed of secured 
them from avarice, ambition, or envy ; they 
could scarce have any anxieties or contentions, 
where every one had more than he could tell 
what to do with. Love indeed might occasion 
some rivalships amongst *hem, because many 
lovers fix upon one object, for the loss of which 
hey will be satisfied with no c&mpensation. 
Otherwise it was a state of ease, innocence, 
and contentment ; where plenty begot plea- 
ure, and pleasure begot singing, and singing 
begot poetry, and poetry begot pleasure again. 
Thus happy was the first race of men, but 
rude withal, and uncultivated. For before 

they could make any considerable progress in 
arts and sciences, the tranquillity of the rural 
life was destroyed by turbulent and ambitious 
spirits ; who, having built cities, raised armies, 
and studied policies of state, made vassals of 
the defenceless shepherds, and rendered that 
which was before easy and unrestrained, a 
mean, laborious, miserable condition. Hence, 
if we consider the pastoral period before learn- 
ing, we shall find it unpolished, if after, we 
shall find it unpleasant. 

The use that I would make of this short 
review of the country life sna»* be this: An 
author that would amuse himself by writing 
pastorals, should form in his fancy a rural scene 
of perfect ease and tranquillity where inno- 
cence, simplicity, and joy abound. It is not 
enough that he writes about the country ; he 
must give us what is agreeable in that scene, 
and hide what is wretched. It is, indeed, 
commonly affirmed, that truth well painted 
will certainly please the imagination; but it is 
sometimes convenient not to discover the whole 
truth, but that part which only is delightful. 
We must sometimes show only half an image 
to the fancy; which if we display in a lively 
manner, the mind is so dexterously deluded, 
that it doth not readily perceive that the other 
half is concealed. Thus in writing pastorals, 
let the tranquillity of that life appear full and 
plain, but hide the meanness of it ; represent 
its simplicity as clear as you please, but cover 
its misery. I would not hereby be so under- 
stood, as if 1 thought nothing that is irksome 
or unpleasant should have a place in these 
writings ; I only mean that this state of life in 
general should be supposed agreeable. But as 
there is no condition exempt from anxiety, 
I will allow shepherds to be afflicted with such 
misfortunes as the loss of a favourite lamb, 
or a faithless mistress. He may, if you please, 
pick a thorn out of his foot ; or vent his grief 
for losing the prize in dancing ; but these 
being small torments, they recommend that 
state which only produces such trifling evils. 
Again, 1 wou/d not seem so strict in my notions 
of innocence and simplicity, as to deny the use 
of a little railing, or the liberty of stealing a 
kid or a sheep-hook. For these are likewise 
such petty enormities, that we must think the 
country happy where these are the greatest 

When a reader is placed in such a scene as 
1 have described, and introduced into such 
company as I have chosen, he gives himself up 
to the pleasing delusion ; and since every one 
doth not know how it comes to pass, I will 
venture tv tell him why he is pleased. 

The first reason is, because all mankind love 
ease. Though ambition and avarice employ 
most men's thoughts, they are such uneasy 
habits, that we do not indulge them out of 
choice, but from some necessity, real or ima- 



~No. 23. 

gitnrv. W« leek happiness, in which ease is 
the principal ingredient, and the end proposed 

in our most restless pursuits is tranquillity. 
We are therefore soothed and delighted with 
t lie representation of it, and fancy we partake 
of the pleasure. 

A second reason is our secret approbation of 
innocence and simplicity. Human nature is 
not so much depraved, as to hinder us from 
respecting goodness in others, though we our- 
selves want it. This is the reason why we are 
so much charmed with the pretty prattle of 
children, and even the expressions of pleasure 
or uneasiness in some part of the brute crea- 
tion. They are without artifice or malice ; 
and we love truth too well to resist the charms 
of sincerity. 

A third reason is our love of the country. 
Health, tranquillity, and pleasing objects are 
the growth of the country; and though men, 
for the general good of the world, are made to 
love populous cities, the country hath the 
greatest share in an uncorrupted heart. When 
we paint, describe, or any way indulge our 
fancy, the country is the scene which supplies 
us with the most lovely images. This state 
was that wherein God placed Adam when in 
Paradise ; nor could all the fanciful wits of 
antiquity imagine any thing that could admi- 
nister more exquisite delight in their Elysium. 

No. 23.] Tuesday, April 7, 1713. 

Extrema per illos 

Justicia excedens tcrris vestigia fecit. 

Virg. Gcor. ii. 473. 

From hence Astrca took her flight, and here 

The prints of her departing steps appear. D)-yden. 

Having already conveyed my reader into 
the fairy or pastoral land, and informed him 
what manner of life the inhabitants of that 
region lead ; I shall, in this day's paper, give 
him some marks whereby he may discover 
whether he is imposed upon by those who pre- 
tend to be of that country ; or, in other words, 
what are the characteristics of a true Arcadian. 

From the foregoing account of the pastoral 
life, we may discover that simplicity is neces- 
sary in the character of shepherds. Their 
minds must be supposed so rude and unculti- 
vated, that nothing but what is plain and un- 
affected can come from them. Nevertheless, 
we arc not obliged to represent them dull and 
stupid, since fine spirits were undoubtedly in 
the wond before arts were invented to polish 
and adorn them. We may therefore introduce 
shepherds with good sense, and even with wit, 
provided their manner of thinking be not too 
gallant or refined. For all men, both rude 
and polite, think and conceive things the same 
way, (truth being eternally the same to all) 
thoagta they expreil them very differently. For 

here lies the difference. Men, who, by long 
study and experience have reduced their ideaj 
to certain classes, and consider the genera, 
nature of things abstracted from particulars, 
express their thoughts after a more concise, 
lively, surprising manner. Those who nave 
little experience, or cannot abstract, delivef 
their sentiments in plain descriptions, by cir- 
cumstances, and those observations which eithet 
strike upon the senses, or are the first motions 
of the mind. And though the former raises 
our admiration more, the latter gives more 
pleasure, and soothes us more naturally. Thus 
a courtly lover may say to his mistress : 

' With thee for ever I in woods could rest, 
Where never human fool the ground hath prest ; 
Thou e'en from dungeons darkness canst exclude, 
And from a desert banish solitude.' 

A shepherd will content himself to say the 
same thing more simply : 

' Lome, Rosalind, oh .' come, for without thee 
What pleasure can the couutry have for me 1 ' 

Again, since shepherds are not allowed to 
make deep reflections, the address required is 
so to relate an action, that the circumstances 
put together shall cause the reader to refrect. 
Thus, by one delicate circumstance, Corydoi* 
tells Alexis that he is the finest songster of the 
country : 

• Of seven smooth joints a mellow pipe I have, 
Which with his dying breath Damcetas gave : 
And said, " This, Corydon, I leave to thee, 
For only thou deserv'st it after me." ' 

As in another pastoral writer, after the same 
manner a shepherd informs us how much bis 
mistress likes him: 

' As I to cool me bath'd oae sultry day, 
Fond Lydu lurking in the sedses lay. 
The wanton laugh'd, and seein'd in haste to fly, 
Yet often stopp'd, and often tarn'd her eye.' 

If ever a reflection be pardonable in pastorals, 
it is where the thought is so obvious, that it 
seems to come easily to the mind ; as in the 
following admirable improvement of Virgil and 
Theocritus : 

' Fair is my flock, nor yet uncomely I, 
If liquid fountains flatter not. And why 
Should liquid fountains flatter us, yet show 
The bordering flowers less beauteous than they grow ? 

A second characteristic of a true shepherd is 
simplicity of manners, or innocence. This is 
so obvious from what I have before advanced, 
that it would be but repetition to insist long 
upon it. I shall only remind the reader, that 
as the pastoral life is supposed to be where 
nature is not much depraved, sincerity and 
truth will generally run through it. Some 
slight transgressions for the sake of variety 
may be admitted, which in effect will only serve 
to set off the simplicity of it in general. I can- 
not better illustrate this rule than by the fol- 
lowing example of a swain who found his 
mistress asleep: 

No. 24.1 



« Once Delia slept on easy moss reolin'd, 
Her lovely limbs half bare, hjkI rude the wind : 
I smoolh'd her coats, and stifle a silent kiss: 
Condemn me, shepherds, if I did amiss.' 

A third sign of a swain is, that something of 
religion, and even superstition is part of his 
character. For we find that those who have 
Jived easy lives in the country, and contemplate 
the works of nature, live in the greatest awe 
of their Author. Nor doth this humour prevail 
Jess now than of old. Our peasants as sincerely 
helieve the tales of goblins and fairies, as the 
neathens those of fauns, nymphs, and satyrs. 
Hence we 'find the works of Virgil and Theo- 
critus sprinkled with left-handed ravens, blasted 
oaks, witchcrafts, evil eyes, and the like. And 
I observe with great pleasure that our English 
author of the pastorals I have quoted hath 
practised this secret with admirable judgment. 

I will yet add another mark, which may be 
observed very often in the above-named poets, 
which is agreeable to the character of shep- 
herds, and nearly allied to superstition, I mean 
the use of proverbial sayings. I take the com- 
mon similitudes in pastoral to be of the pro- 
verbial order, which are so frequent, that it is. 
needless, and would be tiresome to quote them. 
I shall only take notice upon this head, that 
it is a nice piece of art to raise a proverb above 
the vulgar style, and still keep it easy and 
unaffected. Thus the old wish, ' God rest his 
soul,' is finely turned: 

• Then gentle Sidney liv'd, the shepherd's friend, 
Eternal blessings on his shade attend ! ' 

No. 24.] Wednesday, April 8, 1713. 

Diceuda tacendaque calles 1 Pcrs. Sat. iv. 5. 

Dost thou, so young, 

Know when to speak, and when to hold thy tongue? 


Jack Lizard was about fifteen when he was 
first entered in the university, and being a 
youth of a great deal of fire, and a more than 
ordinary application to his studies, it gave his 
conversation a very particular turn. He had 
too much spirit to hold his tongue in company; 
but at the same time so little acquaintance 
with the world, that he did not know how to 
talk like other people. 

After a year and a half's stay at the univer- 
sity, he came down among us to pass away a 
month or two in the country. The first night 
after his arrival, as we were at supper, we 
were all of us very much improved by Jack's 
table-talk. He told us, upon the appearance 
of a dish of wild fowl, that according to the 
opinion of some natural philosophers they 
might be lately come from the moon. Upon 
which the Sparkler bursting out into a laugh, 
he iusulted her with several questions relating 
to the bigness and distance of the moon and 
stars ; and after every interrogatory would be 

winking upon me, and smiling at his sister 
ignorance. Jack gained his point ; for the 
mother was pleased, and all the servants starea 
at the learning of their young master. Jack 
was so encouraged at this success, that for th* 
first week he dealt wholly in paradoxes. l\ 
was a common jest with him to pinch one & 
his sister's lap-dogs, and afterwards prove he 
could not feel it. When the girls were sorting 
a set of knots, he would demonstrate to then/ 
that all the ribands were of the same colour; 
or rather, says Jack, of no colour at all. My 
lady Lizard herself, though she was not a little 
pleased with her son's improvements, was one 
day almost angry with him ; for having acci- 
dentally burnt her fingers as she was lighting 
the lamp for her tea-pot, in the midst of her 
anguish Jack laid hold of the opportunity to 
instruct her that there was no such thing as 
heat in fire. In short, no day passed over our 
heads, in which Jack did not imagine he mada 
the whole family wiser than they were before. 
That part of his conversation which gave* 
me the most pain, was what passed among 
those country gentlemen that came to visit us 
On such occasions Jack usually took upon him 
to be the mouth of the company ; and thinking 
himself obliged to be very merry, would enter, 
tain us with a great many old sayings and ab 
surdities of their college-cook. 1 found this 
fellow had made a very strong impression upon 
Jack's imagination ; which he never considered 
was not the case of the rest of the company, 
till after many repeated trials he found that 
his stories seldom made any body laugh but 

I all this while looked upon Jack as a young 
tree shooting out into blossoms before its time ; 
the redundancy of which, though it was a little 
unseasonable, seemed to foretell an uncommon 

In order to wear out the vein of pedantry 
which ran through his conversation, I took 
him out with me one evening, and first of all 
insinuated to him this rule, which I had my- 
self learned from a very great author, 'To 
think with the wise, but talk with the vulgar.' 
Jack's good sense soon made him reflect that 
he had exposed himself to the laughter of the 
ignorant by a contrary behaviour; upon which 
he told me, that he would take care for the 
future to keep his notions to himself, and con- 
verse in the common received sentiments of 
mankind. He at the same time desired me 
to give him any other rules of conversation 
which I thought might be for his improvement. 
I told him I would think of k ; and accordingly, 
as I have a particular affection for the young 
man, I gave him the next morning the follow- 
ing rules in writing, which may perhaps have 
contributed to make him the agreeable man 
he now is. 

The faculty of interchanging our thoughts 



[No. 24. 

with one another, or what we express hy the 
word conversation, has always heen represented 
hv moral writers as one of the noblest privi- 
leges of reason, and which more particularly 
sets mankind above the brute part of the 

Though nothing so much gains upon the 
affections as this extemjwre eloquence, which 
we have constantly occasion for, and are obliged 
to practise every day, we very rarely meet 
with any who excel in it. 

The conversation of most men is disagree- 
able, not so much for want of wit and learning, 
as of good-breeding and discretion. 

If you resolve to please, never speak to gra- 
tify any particular vanity or passion of your 
own, but always with a design either to divert 
or inform the company. A man who only aims 
at one of these, is always easy in his discourse. 
He is never out of humour at being inter- 
rupted, because he considers that those who 
hear him are the best judges whether what he 
was saying could either divert or inform them. 

A modest person seldom fails to gain the 
good-will of those he converses with, because 
nobody envies a man who does not appear to 
be pleased with himself. 

We should talk extremely little of ourselves. 
Indeed what can we say ? It would be as im- 
prudent to discover our faults, as ridiculous to 
count over our fancied virtues. Our private 
and domestic affairs are no less improper to be 
introduced in conversation. What does it 
concern the company how many horses you 
keep in your stables ? or whether your servant 
is most knave or fool ? 

A man may equally affront the company he 
is in, by engrossing all the talk, or observing 
a contemptuous silence. 

Before you tell a story, it may be generally 
not amiss to draw a short character, and give 
the company a true idea of the principal per- 
sons concerned in it. The beauty of most things 
consisting not so much in their being said or 
done, as in their being said or done by such a 
particular person, or on such a particular oc- 

Notwithstanding all the advantages of youth, 
few young people please in conversation: the 
reason is, that want of experience makes them 
positive, and what they say is rather with a 
design to please themselves than any one else. 

It is certain that age itself shall make many 
things pass well enough, which would have 
been laughed at in the mouth of one much 

Nothing, however, is more insupportable to 
men of sense, than an empty formal man who 
speaks in proverbs, and decides all contro- 
versies with a short sentence. This piece of 
stupidity is the more insufferable, as it puts 
on the air of wisdom. 

A prudent man will avoid talking much of 

any particular science, for which he is re- 
markably famous. There is not, methinks, a 
handsomer thing said of Mr. Cowley in his 
whole life, than, that none but his intimate 
friends ever discovered he was a great poet by 
his discourse : besides the decency of this rule, 
it is certainly founded in good policy. A man 
who talks of any thing he is already famous 
for, has little to get, but a great deal to lose. 
I might add, that he who is sometimes silent 
on a subject where every one is satisfied he 
could speak well, will often be thought no less 
knowing in other matters, where perhaps he 
is wholly ignorant. 

Women are frightened at the name of argu- 
ment, and are sooner convinced by a happy 
turn, or witty expression, than by demonstra- 

Whenever you commend, add your reasons 
for doing so ; it is this w lrch distinguishes the 
approbation of a man of sense from the flat- 
tery of sycophants, and admiration of fools. 

Raillery is no longer agreeable than while 
the whole company is • leased with it. I would 
least of all be understood to except the person 

Though good humour, sense, and discretion, 
can seldom fail to make a man agreeable, it 
may be no ill policy sometimes to prepare 
yourself in a particular manner for conver- 
sation, by looking a little further than your 
neighbours into whatever is become a reigning 
subject. If our armies are besieging a place 
of importance abroad, or our house of commons 
debating a bill of consequence at home, you 
can hardly fail of being heard with pleasure, 
if you have nicely informed yourself of the 
strength, situation, and history of the first, or 
of the reasons for and against the latter. It 
will have the same effect, if when any single 
person begins to make a noise in the world, 
you can learn some of the smallest accidents 
in his life or conversation, which though they 
are too fine for the observation of the vulgar, 
give more satisfaction to men of sense (as they 
are the best openings to a real character) than 
the recital of his most glaring actions. I know 
but one ill consequence to be feared from this 
method, namely, that coming full charged 
into company, you should resolve to unload 
whether a handsome opportunity offers itself 
or no. 

Though the asking of questions may plead 
for itself the specious names of modesty, and 
a desire of information, it affords little pleasure 
to the rest of the company who are not troubled 
with the same doubts; besides which, he who 
asks a question would do well to consider that 
he lies wholly at the mercy of another before 
he receives an answer. 

Nothing is more silly than the pleasure some 
people take iu what they call' speaking their 
mimls.' A man of this make will say a rude 

No. 25.] 



thing for the mere pleasure of saying it, when 
an opposite hehaviour, full as innocent, might 
have preserved his friend, or made his fortune. 

It is not impossible for a man to form to 
himself as exquisite a pleasure in complying 
with the humour and sentiments of others, as 
of bringing others over to his own ; since it is 
the certain sign of a superior genius, that can 
take and become whatever dress it pleases. 

I shall only add, that, besides what I have 
here said, there is something which can never 
be learnt but in the company of the polite. 
The virtues of men are catching as well as their 
vices ; and your own observations added to these 
will soon discover what it is that commands 
attention in one man, and makes you tired 
and displeased with the discourse of another. 

No. 25] Thursday, April 9, 1713. 

Quis tarn Lueili fautor inepte est, 

Ut non hoc fateatur '{ Hor. Lib. 1. Sat. x. 2. 

What friend of his • 

So blindly partial, to deny me this ? Creech. 

The prevailing humour of crying up authors 
that have writ in the days of our forefathers, 
and of passing slightly over the merit of our 
contemporaries, is a grievance that men of a 
free and unprejudiced thought have complained 
of through all ages in their writings. 

1 went home last night full of these reflec- 
tions from a coffee-house, where a great many 
excellent writings were arraigned, and as many 
very indifferent ones applauded, more (as it 
seemed to me) upon the account of their date, 
than upon any intrinsic value or demerit. The 
conversation ended with great encomiums upon 
my lord Verulam's History of Henry the Vllth. 
The company were unanimous in their appro- 
bation of it. I was too well acquainted with 
the traditional vogue of that book throughout 
the whole nation, to venture my thoughts upon 
it. Neither would I now offer my judgment 
upon that work to the public (so great a ve- 
neration have I for the memory of a man whose 
writings are the glory of our nation,) but that 
the authority of so leading a name may perpe- 
tuate a vicious taste amongst us, and betray 
future historians to copy after a model which 
I cannot help thinking far from complete. 

As to the fidelity of the history, 1 have no- 
thing to say : to examine it impartially in that 
view would require much pains and leisure. 
But as to the composition of it, and sometimes 
the choice of matter, I am apt to believe it 
will appear a little faulty to an unprejudiced 
reader. A complete historian should be en- 
dowed with the essential qualifications of a 
great poet. His style must be majestic and 
grave, as well as simple and unaffected ; his 
narration should be animated, short, and clear, 

* Of the poet Luciluus. 

and so as even to outrun the impatience of the 
reader, if possible. This can only be done by 
being very sparing and choice in words, by 
retrenching all cold and superfluous circum- 
stances in an action, and by dwelling upon 
such alone as are material, and fit to delight 
or instruct a serious mind. This is what we 
find in the great models of antiquity, and in 
a more particular manner in Livy, whom it 
is impossible to read without the warmest 

But my lord Verulam, on the contrary, is 
ever in the tedious style of declaimers, using 
two words for one; ever endeavouring to be 
witty, and as fond of out-of-the-way similies 
as some of our old play-writers. He abounds 
in low phrases, beneath the dignity of history, 
and often condescends to little conceits anu 
quibbles. His political reflections are fre- 
quently false, almost every where trivial and 
puerile. His whole manner of turning his 
thoughts is full of affectation and pedantry ; 
and there appears throughout his whole work 
more the air of a recluse scholar, than of a 
man versed in the world. 

After passing so free a censure upon a book 
which for these hundred years and upwards 
has met with the most universal approbation, 
I am obliged in my own defence to transcribe 
some of the many passages I formerly collected 
for the use of my first charge, sir Marmaduke 
Lizard. It would be endless should I point 
out the frequent tautologies and eircu-mlo- 
cutions that occur in every page, which do, 
as it were, rarify, instead of condensing his 
thoughts and matter. It was, in all proba- 
bility, his application to the law that gave him 
a habit of being so wordy ; of which 1 shall 
put down two or three examples. 

* That all records, wherein there was any 
memory or mention of the king's attainder, 
should be defaced, cancelled, and taken off the 
file. — Divers secret and nimble scouts and spies, 
&c. to learn, search, and discover all the cir- 
cumstances and particulars. — To assail, sap,and 
work into the constancy of sir Robert Clifford.' 

I leave the following passages to every one's 
consideration, without making any farther re- 
marks upon them. 

' He should be well enough able to scattef 
the Irish as a flight of birds, and rattle away 
his swarm of bees with their king. — The rebeij 
took their way towards York, &c. but their 
snow-ball did not gather as it went. — So that 
(in a kind of mattacina* of human fortune) 
he turned a broachf that had worn a crown ; 
whereas fortune commonly doth not bring in 
a comedy or farce after a tragedy. — The queen 
was crowned, &c. about two years after the 
marriage, like an old christening that had 
stayed long for god- fathers. — Desirous to trou- 

• A frolicsome dance. 

f A spiu 



[N T o. 26. 

ble the waters in Italy, that he might fish the 
better, easting the net not out of St. Peter's, 
but out of Borgia's bark. — And therefore upon 
the first grain of incense that was sacrificed 
upon the altar of peace at Bulloigne, Perkin 
was smoked away. — This was the end of this 
little cockatrice of a king, that was able to 
destroy those that did not espy him first. — It 
was observed, that the great tempest which 
drove Philip into England, blew down the 
Golden Eagle from the spire of St. Paul's ; 
and in the fall, it fell upon a sign of the Black 
Eagle, which was in Paul's church-yard, in the 
place where the school-house now standeth, 
and battered it, and broke it down: which was 
a strange stooping of a hawk upon a fowl. — 
The king began to find where his shoe did 
wring him. — In whose bosom or budget most 
of Perkin's secrets were laid up. — One might 
know afar off where the owl was by the flight 
of birds. — Bold men, and careless of fame, and 
that took toll of their master's grist. — Empson 
and Dudley would have cut another chop out 
of him. — Peter Hialas, some call him Elias ; 
surely he was the forerunner of, &c. — Lionel, 
bishop of Concordia, was sent as nuncio, &c. 
but, notwithstanding he had a good ominous 
name to have made a peace, nothing followed. — 
Taxing him for a great taxer of his people. — 
Not by proclamations, but by court-fames, 
which commonly print better than printed 
proclamations. — Sir Edward Poynings was en- 
forced to make a wild chace upon the wild 
Irish. — In sparing of blood by the bleeding of 
so much treasure. — And although his own case 
had both steel and parchment more than the 
other ; that is to say, a conquest in the field, 
and an act of parliament. — That pope knowing 
that king Henry the Sixth was reputed in the 
world abroad but for a simple man, was afraid 
it would but diminish the estimation of that 
kind of honour, if there were not a distance 
kept between innocents and saints.' - 

Not to trouble my reader with auy more 
instances of the like nature, I must observe 
that the whole work is ill conducted, and the 
story of Perkin Warbeck (which should have 
been only like an episode in a poem) is spun 
out to near a third part of the book. The 
character of Henry the Seventh, at the end, 
-s rather an abstract of his history than a cha- 
racter. It is tedious, and diversified with so 
many particulars as confound the resemblance, 
and make it almost impossible for the reader 
Jo form any distinct idea of the person. It is 
Hot thus the ancients drew their characters; 
>>ut in a few just and bold strokes gave you 
the distinguishing features of the mind (if I 
/nay be allowed the metaphor) in so distinct a 
manner, and in so strong a light, that you 
grew intimate with your man immediately, 
and knew biin from a hundred. 

After all, it must be considered in favour of 

my lord Verulam, that he lived in an age 
wherein chaste and correct writing was not 
in fashion, and when pedantry was the mode 
even at court ; so that it is no wonder if the 
prevalent humour of the times bore down his 
genius, though superior in force, perhaps, to 
auy of our countrymen that have either gone 
before or succeeded him. 

No. 26.] Friday, April 10, 1713. 

Nou ego illam milii doleni esse puto, qua: dos dicitur, 
Scd padicitiam et ptulorem el sedatam capidinen. 


A woman's true dowry, in my opinion, is not that which 
is usually so called ; but virtue, modesty, and restrained 

A healthy old fellow, that is not a fool, is 
the happiest creature living. It is at that 
time of life only, men enjoy their faculties 
with pleasure and satisfaction. It is then we 
have nothing to manage, as the phrase is; we 
speak the downright truth, and whether the 
rest of the world will give us the privilege or 
not, we have so little to ask of them, that we 
can take it. I shall be very free with the 
women from this one consideration ; and, hav- 
ing nothing to desire of them, shall treat them 
as they stand in nature, and as they ate adorn- 
ed with virtue, and not as they are pleased to 
form and disguise themselves. A set of fops, 
from one generation to another, has made such 
a pother with * bright eyes, the fair sex, the 
charms, the air,' and something so incapable 
to be expressed but with a sigh, that the crea- 
tures have utterly gone out of their very being, 
and there are no women in all the world. If 
they are not nymphs, shepherdesses, graces, 
or goddesses, they are to a woman, all of them 
1 the ladies.' Get to a christening at any alley 
in the town, and at the meanest artificer's, 
and the word is, ' Well, who takes care of the 
ladies ?* I have taken notice that ever since 
the word Forsooth was banished for Madam, 
the word Woman has been discarded for Lady. 
And as there is now never a woman in England, 
I hope I may talk of women without offence 
to the ladies. What puts me in this present 
disposition to tell them their own, is, that in 
the holy week I very civilly desired all delin- 
quents in point of chastity to make some atone- 
ment for their freedoms, by bestowing a charity 
upon the miserable wretches who languish in 
the Lock hospital. But I hear of very little 
done in that matter ; and I am informed, they 
are pleased, instead of taking notice of my 
precaution, to call me an ill-bred old fellow, 
and say I do not understand the world. It is 
not, it seems, within the rules of good-breeding 
to tax the vices of people of quality, and the 
commandments were made for the vulgar. 
I am indeed informed of some oblations sent 
into the house, but they are all come from the 

No. 26.] 



servants of criminals of condition. A poor 
chamber-maid has sent in ten shillings out of 
her hush-money, to expiate her guilt of being 
in her mistress's secret ; but says she dare not 
ask her ladyship for any thing, for she is not 
to suppose that she is locked up with a young 
gentleman, in the absence of her husband, 
three hours together, for any harm ; but, as 
my lady is a person of great sense, the girl 
does not know but that they were reading 
some good book together ; but because she 
fears it may be otherwise, she has sent her ten 
shillings for the guilt of concealing it. We have 
a thimble from a country girl that owns she 
has had dreams of a fine gentleman who comes 
to their house, who gave her half-a-crown, and 
Did her have a care of the men in this town ; 
but she thinks he does not mean what he says, 
and sends the thimble because she does not 
hate him as she ought. The ten shillings, this 
thimble, and an occamy spoon from some other 
unknown poor sinner, are all the atonement 
which is made for the body of sin in London 
and Westminster. I have computed that there 
is one in every three hundred who is not chaste; 
and if that be a modest computation, how great 
a number are those who make no account of 
my admonition ! It might be expected one or 
two of the two hundred and ninety-nine honest, 
might, out of mere charity and compassion to 
iniquity, as it is a misfortune, have done some- 
thing upon so good a time as that wherein 
they were solicited. But major Crab-tree, a 
sour pot companion of mine, says, the two 
hundred ninety and nine are one way or other as 
little virtuous as the three hundredth unchaste 
woman — I would say lady. It is certain, that 
we are infested with a parcel of jilflirts, who 
are not capable of being mothers of brave men, 
for the infant partakes of the temper and dis- 
position of its mother. We see the unaccount- 
able effects which sudden frights and longings 
have upon the offspring ; and it is not to be 
doubted, but the ordinary way of thinking of 
the mother has its influence upon what she 
bears about her nine months. Thus, from the 
want of care in this particular of choosing 
wives, you see men after much care, labour, 
and study, surprised with prodigious starts of 
ill-nature and passion, that can be accounted 
for no otherwise but from hence, that it grew 
upon them in embryo, and the man was deter- 
mined surly, peevish, froward, sullen, or out- 
rageous, before he saw the light. The last 
time I was in a public place 1 fell in love by 
proxy for sir Harry Lizard. The young woman 
happens to be of quality. Her father was a 
gentleman of as noble a disposition as any 
I ever met with. The widow, her mother, 
under whose wing she loves to appear, and is 
proud of it, is a pattern to persons of condition. 
Good sense, heightened and exerted with good 
breeding, is the parent's distinguishing cha- 

racter; and if we can get this young woman 
into our family, we shall think we have a much 
better purchase than others, who, without hef 
good qualities, may bring into theirs the greatest 
accession of riches. I sent sir Harry by last 
night's post the following letter on the subject. 


. Upon our last parting, and as I had just 
mounted the little roan I am so fond of, you 
called me back ; and when I stooped to you, 
you squeezed me by the hand, and with allu- 
sion to some pleasant discourse we had had a 
day or two before in the house, concerning the 
present mercantile way of contracting mar- 
riages, with a smile and a blush you bid me 
look upon some women for you, and send word 
how they went. I did not see one to my mind 
till the last opera before Easter. I assure you 
I have been as unquiet ever since, as I wish 
you were till you had her. Her height, her 
complexion, and everything but her age, which 
is under twenty, are very much to my satis- 
faction: there is an ingenuous shame in her 
eyes, which is to the mind what the bloom of 
youth is to the body ; neither implies that 
there are virtuous habits and accomplishments 
already attained by the possessor, but they 
certainly show an unprejudiced capacity to- 
wards them. As to the circumstance of this 
young woman's age, I am reconciled to her 
want of years, because she pretends to nothing 
above them ; you do not see in her the odious 
forwardness to I know not what, as in the as- 
sured countenances, naked bosoms, and con- 
fident glances of her cotemporaries. 

4 1 will vouch for her, that you will have her 
whole heart, if you can win it ; she is in no 
familiarities with the fops, her fan has never 
been yet out of her own hand, and her bro- 
ther's face is the only man's she ,:ver looked 
in stedfastly. 

* When I have gone thus far, and told you 
that I am very confident of her as to her virtue 
and education, I may speak a little freely to 
you as you are a young man. There is a dig- 
nity in the young lady's beauty, when it shall 
become her to receive your friends with a good 
air, and affable countenance ; when she is to 
represent that part of you which you must 
delight in, the frank and cheerful reception 
of your friends, her beauties will do as much 
honour to your table, as they will give you 
pleasure in your bed. 

' It is no small instance of felicity to have a 
woman, from whose behaviour your friends are 
more endeared to you ; and for whose sake 
your children are as much valued as for your 

* It is not for me to celebrate the lovely 
height of her forehead, the soft pulp of her 
lips, or to describe the amiable profile which 
her fine hair, cheeks, and neck, made to the 



[No. 27 

beholden that night, but shall leave them to 
your own observation when you come to town ; 
w Inch vou may do at your leisure, and be time 
enough, for there are many in town richer 
tban her whom I recommend. 

' I am Sir, your most obedient 

' and most humble servant, 


No. 27.] Saturday, April 11, 1713. 

Malta pntans, sortemquc amnio miseratus iniquam. 
Virg. JF.n. vi. 332. 

Struck with compassion of so sad a state. 

In compassion to those gloomy mortals, who 
by their unbelief are rendered incapable of 
feeling those impressions of joy and hope 
which the celebration of the late glorious fes- 
tival naturally leaves on the mind of a Chris- 
tian, I shall in this paper endeavour to evince 
that there are grounds to expect a future state, 
without supposing in the reader any faith at 
all, not even the belief of a Deity. Let the 
most stedfast unbeliever open his eyes, and 
take a survey of the sensible world, and then 
say if there be not a connexion, and adjustment, 
and exact and coustant order discoverable in 
all the parts of it. .Whatever be the cause, the 
thing itself is evident to all our faculties. Look 
into the animal system, the passions, senses, 
aud locomotive powers ; is not the like contri- 
vance and propriety observable in these too? 
Are they not fitted to certain ends, and are 
they not by nature directed to proper objects ? 

Is it possible, then, that the smallest bodies 
should, by a management superior to the wit 
of man, be disposed in the most excellent 
manner agreeable to their respective natures ; 
and yet the spirits or souls of men be neglected, 
or managed by such rules as fall short of man's 
understanding ? Shall every other passion be 
i ightly placed by nature, and shall that appe- 
tite of immortality natural to all mankind he 
alone misplaced, or designed to be frustrated ? 
Shall the industrious application of the inferior 
animal powers in the meanest vocations be 
answered by the ends we propose, and shall 
not the generous efforts of a virtuous mind be 
rewarded ? In a word, shall the corporeal world 
be all order and harmony, the intellectual, dis- 
cord and confusion ? He who is bigot enough 
to believe these things, must bid adieu to that 
natural rule of ' reasoning from analogy ;' must 
run counter to that maxim of common sense, 
* That men ought to form their judgments of 
things unexperienced, from what they have 

If any thing looks like a recompense of ca- 
jamitous virtue on this side the grave, it is either 
kn assurance that thereby we obtain the favour 
and protection of heaven, and shall, whatever 
ftefalU i ls i u this, in another life meet with a just 

return ; or elso that applause and reputation 
which is thought to attend virtuous actions 
The former of these, our free-thinkers, out o 
their singular wisdom and benevolence to man 
kind, endeavour to erase from the minds o 
men. The latter can never be justly distri 
buted in this life, where so many ill actiens are 
reputable, and so many good actions dises 
teemed or misinterpreted ; where subtle hypo- 
crisy is placed in the most engaging bght, and 
modest virtue lies concealed ; where the heart 
and the soul are hid from the eyes of men, and 
the eyes of men are dimmed and vitiated. 
Plato's sense in relation to this point is con- 
tained in his Gorgias, where he introduces 
Socrates speaking after this manner. 

1 It was in the reign of Saturn provided by a 
law, which the gods have since continued down 
to this time, That they who had lived virtuously 
and piously upon earth, should after death en- 
joy a life full of happiness, in certain islands 
appointed for the habitation of the blessed : 
but that such as have lived wickedly should go 
into the receptacle of damned souls, named 
Tartarus, there to suffer the punishments they 
deserved. But in all the reign of Saturn, and 
in the beginning of the reign of Jove, living 
judges were appointed, by whom each person 
was judged in his lifetime, in the same day 
on which he was to die. The consequence of 
which was, that they often passed wrong judge- 
ments. Pluto, therefore, who presided in Tar- 
tarus, and the guardians of the blessed islands, 
finding that, on the other side, many unfit per- 
sons were sent to their respective dominions, 
complained to Jove, who promised to redress 
the evil. He added, The reason of these un- 
just proceedings are that men are judged in 
the body. Hence many conceal the blemishes 
and imperfections of their minds by beauty, 
birth, and riches; not to mention, that at the 
time of trial there are crowds of witnesses to 
attest their having lived well. These things 
mislead the judges, who being themselves also 
of the number of the living, are surrounded 
each with his own body, as with a veil thrown 
over his mind. For the future, therefore, it 
is my intention that men do not come on their 
trial till after death, when they shall appear 
before the judge, disrobed of all their corporeal 
ornaments. The judge himself too shall be a 
pure unveiled spirit, beholding the very soul, 
the naked soul of the party before him. With 
this view 1 have already constituted my sons, 
Minos and Rhadamanthus, judges, who are 
natives of Asia ; and ^Eacus, a native of Europe. 
These, after death, shall hold their court in a 
certain meadow, from which there are two 
roads, leading the one to Tartarus the other to 
the Islands of" the blessed.'" 

From this, as from numberless other passages 
of his writings, may be seen Plato's opinion of 
a future stato. A thing therefore in regard to 

No. 27. J 



us so comfortable, in itself so just and excellent, 
a thing so agreeable to the analogy of nature, 
and so univei sally credited by all orders and 
ranks of men, of all nations and ages, what is 
it that should move a few men to reject ? 
Surely there must be something of prejudice 
in the case. 1 appeal to the secret thoughts 
of a free-thinker, if he does not argue within 
himself after this manner: 'The senses and 
faculties I enjoy at present are visibly designed 
to repair or preserve the body from the injuries 
it is liable to in its present circumstances. 
But in an eternal state, where no decays are 
to be repaired, no outward injuries to be fenced 
against, where there are no flesh and bones, 
nerves or blood-vessels, there will certainly be 
noue of the senses : and that there should be 
a state of life without, the senses is incon- 

But as this manner of reasoning proceeds 
from a poverty of imagination, and narrowness 
of soul in those that use it, I shall endeavour 
to remedy those defects, and open their views, 
by laying before them a case which, being na- 
turally possible, may perhaps reconcile them 
to the belief of what is supernaturally revealed. 

Let us suppose^ person blind and deaf from 
his birth, who, being grown to man's estate, is, 
by the dead palsy, or some other cause deprived 
of his feeling, tasting, and smelling, and at 
the same time has the impediment of his hear- 
ing removed, and the film taken from his eyes. 
What the five senses are to us, that the touch, 
taste, and smell, were to him. And any other 
ways of perception of a more refined and ex- 
tensive nature were to him as inconceivable, 
as to us those are which will one day be 
adapted to perceive those things which ' eye 
hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither hath it 
entered into the heart of man to conceive.' 
And it would be just as reasonable in him to 
conclude, that the loss of those three senses 
could not possibly be succeeded by any new 
inlets of perception, as in a modern free- 
thinker to imagine there can be no state of life 
and perception without the senses he enjoys 
at present. Let us further suppose the same 
person's eyes, at their first opening, to be 
struck with a great variety of the most gay and 
pleasing objects, and his ears with a melodious 
concert of vocal and instrumental music. Be- 
hold him amazed, ravished, transported ; and 
you have some distant representation, some 
faint and glimmering idea of the ecstatic state 
of the soul in that article in which she emerges 
from this sepulchre of flesh into life and im- 

N. B. It has been observed by the Chris- 
tians, that a certain ingenious foreigner,* who 

* M. Deslandes, who was a free-thinker, and had pub- 
lished a historical list of all who died laughing. He had 
the small-pox here" in England, of which he recovered. 

has published many exemplary jests for the 
use of persons in the article of death, was very 
much out of humour in a late fit of sickness, 
till he was in a fair way of recovery. 

No. 28.] Monday, April 13, 1713. 

iEtas parentum pejor avis tulit 

Nos nequiores, mox daturos 

Progeniem vitiosiorem. 

[lor. Lib. 5. Od. vi. 46. 

Our fathers have been worse than theirs, 

And we than ours : next age will see 

A race more profligate than we. Roscommon. 

Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus are the 
most famous amongst the Greek writers of 
pastorals. The two latter of these are judged to 
be far short of Theocritus, whom I shall speak 
of more largely, because he rivals the greatest 
of all poets, Virgil himself. He hath the ad- 
vantage confessedly of the Latin, in coming 
before him, and writing in a tongue more pro- 
per for pastoral. The softness of the Doric 
dialect, which this poet is said to have im- 
proved beyond any who came before him, is 
what the ancient Roman writers owned their 
language could not approach. But beside? 
this beauty, he seems to me to have had a soul 
more softly and teuderly inclined to this way 
of writing than Virgil, whose genius led him 
naturally to sublimity. It is true that the 
great Roman, by the niceness of his judgment, 
and great command of himself, has acquitted 
himself dexterously this way. But a penetra- 
ting judge will find there the seeds of that fire 
which burned afterwards so bright in the Geo r .- 
gics, and blazed out in the ^Eneid. 1 must cot, 
however, dissemble that these bold strokes ap- 
pear chiefly in those Eclogues of Virgil which 
ought not to be numbered amongst his pasto- 
rals, which are indeed generally thought to be 
all of the pastoral kind ; but by the best judges 
are only called his select poems, as the word 
Eclogue originally means. 

Those who will take the pains to consult 
Scaliger's comparison of these two poets, will 
find that Theocritus hath outdone him in, 
those very passages which the critic hath pro- 
duced in honour of Virgil. There is, in short e 
more innocence, simplicity, and whatever else 
hath been laid down as the distinguishing 
marks of pastoral, in the Greek than the Ro- 
man : and all arguments from the exactness, 
propriety, conciseness, and nobleness of Virgil, 
may very well be turned against him. There is, 
indeed, sometimes a grossness and clownishness 
in Theocritus, which Virgil, who borrowed his 
greatest beauties from him, hath avoided. J 
will, however, add, that Virgil out of the ex* 
cellence of genius only, hath come short of 
Theocritus : and had possibly excelled him, if 
in greater subjects he had not been born *o 
excel all mankind. 


[No. '2V. 

The Italians' a era the lirst amongst the mo- 
derm that fell into pastoral writing. It is 
observed, that the people of that nation are 
very profound and abstruse in their poetry as 
well as politics; fond of surprising 1 conceits 
and far-fetched imaginations, and labour 
chiefly to say what was never said before. 
From persons of this character, how can we 
expect that air of simplicity and truth which 
hath been proved so essential to shepherds ? 
There are two pastoral plays in this language, 
which they boast of as the most elegant per- 
formances in poetry that the latter ages have 
produced ; the Aminta of Tasso, and Guarini's 
Pastor Fido. lu these the names of the per- 
sons are indeed pastoral, and the sylvan gods, 
the dryads, and the satyrs, appointed with 
the equipage of antiquity ; but neither the 
language, sentiments, passions, or designs, like 
those of the pretty triflers in Virgil and Theo- 
critus. I shall produce an example out of each, 
which are commonly taken notice of, as pat- 
terns of the Italian way of thinking in pastoral. 
Sylvia, in Tasso's poem, enters adorned with a 
garland of flowers, and views herself in a foun- 
tain with such self-admiration, that she breaks 
out into a speech to the flowers on her head, 
and tells them, ' she doth not wear them to 
adorn herself, but to make them ashamed.' 
Jn the Pastor "Fido, a shepherdess reasons after 
an abstruse philosophical manner about the 
violence of love, and expostulates with the 
gods, ' for making laws so rigorous to restrain 
us, and at the same time giving us invincible 
desires.' Whoever can bear these, may be 
assured he hath no taste for pastoral. 

When I am speaking of the Italians, it 
would be unpardonable to pass by Sannaza- 
rius. He hath changed the scene in this kind 
of poet i y from woods and lawns, to the barren 
beach and boundless ocean : introduce^s sea- 
calves in the room of kids and lambs, sea- 
mews for the lark and the linnet, and presents 
his mistress with oysters instead of fruits and 
flowers. How good soever his style and thoughts 
may be, yet who can pardon him for his ar- 
bitrary change of the sweet manners and 
pleasing objects of the country, for what in 
their own nature are uncomfortable and dread- 
ful ? I think he hath few or no followers, or, 
if any, such as knew little of his beauties, and 
only copied his faults, and so are lost and for- 

The French are so far from thinking ab- 
strusely, that they often seem not to think at 
all. It is all a run of numbers, common-place 
descriptions of woods, floods, groves, loves, &c. 
Those who write the most accurately fall into 
the manner of their country, which is gallantry. 
I cannot better illustrate what 1 would say of 
the French than by the dress in which they 
make their shepherds appear in their pastoral 
interludes upon the itage, as 1 find it described 

by a celebrated author. ' The Eln-pherds,' 
laith he, ' are all embroidered, and acquit them- 
selves in a ball better than our English dancing- 
masters. I have seen a couple of rivers ap- 
pear in red-stockings; and Alpheus, instead 
of having his head covered with sedges and 
hull-rushes, making love in a fair full bottomed 
perriwig and a plume of feathers; but with a 
voice so full of shakes and quavers, that I should 
have thought the murmurs of a country brook 
the much more azreeable music* 

No. 29.] Tuesday, April 11, 1713, 

Ride si oapia Mart. Lib. C. Epig. x!i. 1. 

Laugh if you arc wise. 

In order to look into any person's temper, 
I generally make my first observation upon his 
laugh, whether he is easily moved, and what 
are the passages which throw him into that 
agreeable kind of convulsion. People are never 
so much unguarded, as when they are pleased ; 
and laughter being a visible symptom of some 
inward satisfaction, it is then, if ever, we may 
believe the face. There is, perhaps, no better 
index to point us to the particularities of the 
mind than this, which is in itself one of the 
chief distinctions of our rationality. For, as 
Milton says, 

' Smiles from reason flow, to brutes dem'd, 

And are of love the food ' 

It may be remarked in general under this head, 
that the laugh of men of wit is for the most part 
but a faint constrained kind of half-laugh, as 
such persons are never without some diffidence 
about them : but that of fools is the most ho- 
nest, natural, open laugh in the world. 

1 haye often had thoughts of writing a trea- 
tise upon this faculty, wherein I would have 
laid down rules for the better regulation of it 
at the theatre. I would have criticised on the 
laughs now in vogue, by which our comic 
writers might the better know how to trans- 
port an audience into this pleasing affection. 
I had set apart a chapter for a dissertation on 
the talents of some of our modern comedians ; 
and as it was the manner of Plutarch to draw 
comparisons of his heroes and orators, to set 
their actions and eloquence in a fairer light ; 
so I would have made the parallel of Pinketh- 
man, Norris, and Bullock ; and so far shown 
their different methods of raising mirth, that 
any one should be able to distinguish whether 
the jest was the poet's or the actor's. 

As the playhouse affords us the most occa- 
sions of observing upon the behaviour of the 
face, it may he useful (for the direction of those 
who would be critics this way) to remark, that 
the virgin ladies usually dispose themselves in 
the front of the boxes, the young married wo- 
men compose the second row, while the rear 

No. 29.] 



Is generally made up of mothers of long stand- 
ing-, undesigning maids, and contented widows. 
Whoever will cast his eye upon them under 
this view, during the representation of a play, 
will find me so far in the right, that a double 
entendre strikes the first row into an affected 
gravity, or careless indolence, the second will 
venture at a smile, but the third take the con- 
ceit entirely, and express their mirth in a 
downright laugh. 

When I descend to particulars, I find the 
reserved prude will relapse into a smile at the 
extravagant freedoms of the coquette ; the 
coquette in her turn laughs at the starchness 
and awkward affectation of the prude ; the 
man of letters is tickled with the vanity and 
ignorance of the fop ; and the fop confesses his 
ridicule at the impoliteness of the pedant. 

I fancy we may range the several kinds of 
laughers under the following heads : 

The Dimplers. 
The Smilers. 
The Laughers. 
The Grinners. 
The Horse-laughers. 

The dimple is practised to give a grace to 
the features, and is frequently made a bait to 
entangle a gazing lover; this was called by 
the ancients the Chian laugh. 

The smile is for the most part confined to 
the fair sex, and their male retinue. It ex- 
presses our satisfaction in a silent sort of ap- 
probation, doth not too much disorder the 
features, and is practised by lovers of the most 
delicate address. This tender motion of the phy- 
siognomy the ancients called the Ionic laugh. 

The laugh among us is the common Risus of 
the ancients. 

The grin by writers of antiquity is called the 
Syncrusian; and was then, as it is at this time, 
made use of to display a beautiful set of teeth. 

The horse-laugh, or the Sardonic, is made 
use of with great success in all kinds of dispu- 
tation. The proficients in this kind, by a well- 
timed laugh, will baffle the most solid argu- 
ment. This upon all occasions supplies the 
want of reason, is always received with great 
applause in coffee-house disputes ; and that 
side the laugh joins with, is generally observed 
to gain the better of his antagonist. 

The prude hath a wonderful esteem for the 
Chian laugh or dimple : she looks upon all the 
other kinds of laughter as excesses of levity; 
and is never seen upon the most extravagant 
jests to disorder her countenance with the 
ruffle of a smile. Her lips are composed with 
a primness peculiar to her character, all her 
modesty seems collected into her face, and she 
but very rarely takes the freedom to sink her 
cheek into a dimple. 

The young widow is only a Chian for a time ; 
her smiles are confined by decorum, and she is 

obliged to make her face sympathize wkh her 
habit; she looks demure by art, and by the 
strictest rules of decency is never allowed the 
smile till the first offer or advance towards her 
is over. 

The effeminate fop, who by the long exercise 
of his countenance at the glass, hath reduced 
it to an exact discipline, may claim a place in 
this clan. You see him upon any occasion, to 
give spirit to his discourse, admire his own 
eloquence by a dimple. 

The Ionics are those ladies that take a greater 
liberty with their features ; yet even these may 
be said to smother a laugh, as the former to 
stifle a smile. 

The beau is an Ionic out of complaisance, 
and practises the smile the better to sympathize 
with the fair. He will sometimes join in a 
laugh to humour the spleen of a lady, or ap- 
plaud a piece of wit of his own, but always 
takes care to confine his mouth within the 
rules of good breeding; he takes the laugh 
from the ladies, but is never guilty of so great 
an indecorum as to begin it. 

The Ionic laugh is of universal use to men 
of power at their levies ; and is esteemed by 
judicious place-hunters a more particular mark 
of distinction than the whisper. A young 
gentleman of my acquaintance valued himself 
upon his success, having obtained this favour 
after the attendance of three months only. 

A judicious author, some years since pub- 
lished a collection of sonnets, which he very 
successfully called, Laugh and be Fat ; or, Pills 
to purge Melancholy: 1 cannot sufficiently ad- 
mire the facetious title of these volumes, and 
must censure the world of ingratitude, while 
they are so negligent in rewarding the jocose 
labours of my friend Mr. D'Urfey, who was so 
large a contributor to this treatise, and to 
whose humorous productions so many rural 
squires in the remotest parts of this island are 
obliged for the dignity and state which corpu- 
lency gives them. The story of the sick man's 
breaking an imposthume by a sudden fit of 
laughter, is too well known to need a recital. 
It is my opinion, that the above pills would be 
extremely proper to be taken with asses milk, 
and mightily contribute towards the renewing 
and restoring decayed lungs. Democritus is 
generally represented to us as a man of the 
largest size, which we may attribute to his 
frequent exercise of his risible faculty. I re- 
member Juvenal says of him, 

Perpetuo lisn pulinonem agitare solebat. — Sat. x. 33. 

He shook his sides with a perpetual laugh. 

That sort of man whom a late writer has 
called the Butt, is a great promoter of this 
healthful agitation, and is generally stocked 
with so much good humour, as to strike in 
with the gayety of conversation, though some 
innocent blunder of his own be the subject of 
the raillery. 





I shall range all old amorous dotards under 
tin.* denomination of Grinners ; when a young 
blooming wench touches their fancy, by an 
endeavour to recall youth into their cheeks, 
they immediately overstrain their muscular 
features, and shrivel their countenance into 
this frightful merriment. 

The wag is of the 6ame kind, and by the 
same artifice labours to support his impotence 
of wit : but he very frequently calls in the 
horse-laugh to his assistance. 

There are another kind of grinners, which 
the ancients call Megarics ; and some moderns 
have, not injudiciously, given them the name of 
the Sneerers. These always indulge their mirth 
at the expense of their friends, and all their 
ridicule consists in unseasonable ill-nature. I 
oould wish these laughers would consider, that 
let them do what they can, there is no laugh- 
ing away their own follies by laughing at other 

The mirth of the tea-table is for the most 
part Megaric; and in visits the ladies them- 
selves very seldom scruple the sacrificing a 
friendship to a laugh of this denomination. 

The coquette hath a great deal of the Me- 
garic in her ; but, in short, she is a proficient 
in laughter, and can run through the whole 
exercise of the features ; she subdues the for- 
mal lover with the dimple, accosts the fop with 
the smile, joins with the wit in the downright 
laugh, to vary the air of her countenance fre- 
quently rallies with the grin, and when she 
has ridiculed her lover quite out of his under- 
standing, to complete his misfortunes, strikes 
him dumb with the horse-laugh. 

The horse-laugh is a distinguishing charac- 
teristic of the rural hoyden, and it is observed 
to be the last symptom of rusticity that for- 
sakes her under the discipline of the boardiug- 

Punsters, I find, very much contribute to- 
wards the Sardonic, and the extremes of either 
wit or folly seldom fail of raising this noisy 
kind of applause. As the ancient physicians 
held the Sardonic laugh very beneficial to the 
lungs ; I should, methinks, advise all my 
countrymen of consumptive and hectical con- 
stitutions to associate with the most facetious 
punsters of the age. Persius hath very ele- 
gantly described a Sardonic laugher in the 
following line, tremulos naso crispantc oachinnos. 

Sat. iii. 87. 
Redoubled peals of trembling laughter bursts, 
Convulsing every feature Of the face. 

Laughter is a vent of any sudden joy that 
strikes upon the mind, which being too volatile 
and strong, breaks out in this tremor of the 
voice. The poets make use of this metaphor 
when they would describe nature in her richest 
dress, for beauty is never so lovely as when 
adorned with the smile, aud conversation never 

sits easier upon us, than when we now and 
then discharge ourselves in a symphony of 
laughter, which may not improperly be called, 
The Chorus of Conversation. 

No. 30.] Wednesday, April 15, 1713. 

rcdeunt Saturnia Rtgna. 

Vhrg. Eel. iv. 6. 

Satamian times 

Roll round again. 

Dry den. 

The Italians and French being despatched, 
I come now to the Engli b, whom I shall treat 
with such meekness as becomes a good patriot ; 
and shall so far recom.nend this our island as 
a proper scene for pastoral, under certain regu- 
lations, as will satisfy the courteous reader 
that I am in the landed interest. 

I must in the first place observe, that our 
countrymen have so good an opinion of the 
ancients, and think so modestly of themselves, 
that the generality of pastoral writers have 
either stolen all from the Greeks and Romans, 
or so servilely imitated their manners and cus- 
toms, as makes them very ridiculous. In look- 
ing over some English pastorals a few days 
ago, I perused at least fifty lean flocks, and 
reckoned up a hundred left-handed ravens, 
besides blasted oaks, withering meadows, and 
weeping deities. Indeed most of the occasional 
pastorals we have, are built upon one and the 
same plan. A shepherd asks his fellow,' Why he 
is so pale ? if his favourite sheep hath strayed ? 
if his pipe be broken ? or Phyllis unkind?' He 
answers, ' None of these misfortunes have be- 
fallen him, but one much greater, for Damon 
(or sometimes the god Pan) is dead.' This 
immediately causes the other to make com- 
plaints, and call upon the lofty pines and silver 
streams to join in the lamentation. While he 
goes on, his friend interrupts him, and tells him 
that Damon lives, and shews him a track of 
light in the skies to confirm it; then invites 
him to chesnuts and cheese. Upon this scheme 
most of the noble families in Great Britain have 
been comforted ; nor can I meet with any right, 
honourable shepherd that doth not die and live 
again, after the manner of the aforesaid Damon. 

Having already informed my reader wherein 
the knowledge of antiquity may he serviceable, 
I shall now direct him where he may lawfully 
deviate from the ancients. There are some 
things of an established nature in pastoral, 
which are essential to it, such as a country 
scene, innocence, simplicity. Others there are 
of a changeable kind, such as habits, customs, 
and the like. The difference of the climate is 
also to be considered, for what is proper in 
Arcadia, or even in Italy, might be very absurd 
in a colder country. By the sam^ rule, the 
difference of the soil, of fruits, and flowers, ii 
to be observed. And in so fine a couutry aa 

No. 30.] 



Britain, what occasion is there for that pro- 
fusion of hyacinths and Pastaa roses, and that 
cornucopia of foreign fruits which the British 
shepherds never heard of? How much more 
pleasing is the following scene to an English 
reader ! 

' This place may seem for shepherds' leisure made, 
So lovingly these elms unite their shade. 
Th' ambitious woodbine, how it climbs to breathe 
lis balmy sweets around on all beneath ! 
The ground with grass of cheerfnl green bespread, 
Thro' which the springing flow'r uprears its head ! 
Lo here the king-cup of a golden hue 
Meclley'd with daisies white, and endive blue ! 
Hark, how the gaudy goldfinch and the thrush, 
With tuneful warbiings fill that bramble bush! 
In pleasing conceit all the birds combine, 
And tempt us in tho various song to join. 

The theology of the ancient pastoral is so 
very pretty, that it were pity entirely to change 
it ; but I think that part only is to he retained 
which is universally known, and the rest to be 
made up out of our own rustical superstition 
of hob-thrushes, fairies, goblins, and witches. 
The fairies are capable of being made very 
entertaining persons, as they are described by 
several of our poets ; and particularly by Mr. 

' About this spring (if ancient fame say true) 
The dapper elves their moon-light sports pursue, 
Their pigmy king, and little fairy queen, 
In circling dances gambol'd on the green, 
While tuneful sprites a merry concert made, 
And airy music warbled through the shade.' 

What hath been said upon the difference of 
climate, soil, and theology, reaches the pro- 
verbial sayings, dress, customs and sports of 
shepherds. The following examples of our 
pastoral sports are extremely beautiful : 

' Whilome did I, all as this poplar fair, 
Upraise my heedless head, devoid of care, 
'Mong rustic routs the chief for wanton game ; 
Nor could they merry make till Lobbin came. 
Who better seen than I in shepherds arts, 
To please the lads, and win the lasses hearts ? 
How deftly to mine oaten reed, so sweet, 
Wont they upon the green to shift their feet? 
And when the dauce was done, how would they yearn 
Some well devised tale from me to learn? 
For many songs, and tales of mirth had I, 
To chace the ling'ring sun adown the sky.' 

' O now ! if ever, bring 

The laurel green, the smelling eglantine, 
And tender branches from the mantling vine, 
The dewy cowslip that in meadow grows, 
The fountain violet, and garden rose : 
Your hamlet strew, and every public was', 
And consecrate to mirth Albino's day. 
Myself will lavish all my little store : 
And deal about the goblet flowing o'er : 
Old Moulin there shall harp, young Mico sing, 
And Cuddy dance the round amidst the ring, 
And Hobbinolliis antic gambols play.' 

The reason why such changes from the an- 
cients should be introduced is very obvious; 
namely, that poetry being imitation, and that 
imitation being the best which deceives the 
most easily, it follows that we must take up 
the customs which are most familiar, or uni- 
versally known, since no man can be deceived 

or delighted with the imitation of what he is 
ignorant of. 

It is easy to be observed that these rules are 
drawn from what our countrymen Spenser and 
Philips have performed in this way. I shall 
not. presume to say any more of them, than 
that both have copied and improved the beau- 
ties of the ancients, whose manner of thinking 
I would above all things recommend. As far 
as our language would allow them, they have 
formed a pastoral style according to the Doric 
of Theocritus, in which I dare not say they 
have excelled Virgil ! but I may be allowed, 
for the honour of our language, to suppose it 
more capable of that pretty rusticity than the 
Latin. To their works I refer my reader to 
make observations upon the pastoral style : 
where he will sooner find that secret than from 
a folio of criticisms. 

No. 31.] Thursday, April 16, 1713. 

Fortcm posce auiinum— Juv. Sat. x. 357. 

Ask of the gods content and strength of mind. 

'My lady Lizard is never better pleased than 
when she sees her children about her engaged 
in any profitable discourse. I found her last 
night sitting in the midst of her daughters, 
and forming a very beautiful semicircle about 
the fire. I immediately took my place in an 
elbow chair, which is always left empty for 
me in one corner. 

Our conversation fell insensibly upon the 
subject of happiness, in which every one of the 
young ladies gave her opinion, with that free- 
dom and unconcemeduess which they always 
use when they are in company only with their 
mother and myself. 

Mrs. Jane declared, that she thought it the 
greatest happiness to be married to a man of 
merit, and placed at the head of a well-regu- 
lated family. 1 could not but observe, that 
in her character of a man of merit, she gave 
us a lively description of Tom Worthy, who 
has long made his addresses to her. The sisters 
did not discover this at first, till she began to 
run down fortune in a lover, and, among the 
accomplishments of a man of merit, unluckily 
mentioned white teeth and black eyes. 

Mrs. Annabella, after having rallied her sis- 
ter upon her man of merit, talked much of 
conveniencies of life, affluence of fortune, and 
easiness of temper, in one whom she should 
pitch upon for a husband. In short, though 
the baggage would not speak out, I found the 
sum of her wishes was a rich fool, or a man so 
turned to her purposes, that she might enjoy 
his fortune, and insult his understanding. 

The romantic Cornelia was for living in a 
wood among choirs of birds, with zephyrs, 
echos, and rivulets, to make up the concert . 
she would not seem to include a husband in 



;no. 31. 

ber scheme, but at Ihe same time talked so 
passionately of cooing turtles, mossy banks, 
and beds of violets, that one might easily per- 
ceive she was not without thoughts of a com- 
panion in her solitudes. 

Miss Betty placed her summitm bonum in 
equipages, assembles, balls, and birth-nights, 
talked in raptures of sir Edward Shallow's gilt 
coach, and my lady Tattle's room, in which 
she saw company; nor would she have easily 
given over, had she not observed that her 
mother appeared more serious than ordinary, 
and by her looks showed that she did not ap- 
prove such a redundance of vanity and imper- 
tinence. { 

My favourite, the Sparkler, with an air of 
innocence and modesty, which is peculiar to 
her, said that she never expected such a thing 
as happiness, and that she thought the most 
any one could do was to keep themselves from 
being uneasy ; for, as Mr. Ironside has often 
told as, says she, we should endeavour to be 
easy here, and happy hereafter : at the same 
time she begged me to acquaint them by what 
rules this ease of mind, or if I would please 
to call it happiness, is best attained. 

My lady Lizard joined in the same request 
with her youngest daughter, adding, with a 
serious look, The thing seemed to her of so 
great consequence, that she hoped I would for 
once forget they were all women, and give my 
real thoughts of it with the same justness I 
would use among a company of my own sex. 
I complied with her desire, and communicated 
my sentiments to them on this subject as near 
as 1 can remember, pretty much to the follow- 
ing purpose. 

As nothing is more natural than for every 
one to desire to be happy, it is not to be won- 
dered at that the wisest men in all ages have 
spent so much time to discover what happiness 
is, and wherein it chiefly consists. An emi- 
nent writer, named Varro, reckons up no less 
than two hundred eighty-eight different opi- 
nions upon this subject; and another, called 
Lucian, after having given us a long catalogue 
of the notions of several philosophers, endea- 
vours to show the absurdity of all of them, 
without establishing any thing of his own. 

That which seems to have made so many 
err in this case, is the resolution they took to 
fix a man's happiness to one determined point ; 
which I conceive cannot be made up but by 
the concurrence of several particulars. 

I shall readily allow Virtue the first place, 
as she is the mother of Content. It is this 
which oalms our thoughts, and makes us survey 
ourselves with ease and pleasure. Naked virtue, 
however, is not alone sufficient to make a man 
happy. ' It must be accompanied with at least 
a moderate provision of all the necessaries of 
life, and not ruffled and disturbed by bodily 
j ain . A fit of the stone was sharp enough to 

make a stoic cry out * that Zeno, his master, 
taught him false, when he told him tliat paiu 
was no evil.' 

But, besides this, virtue is so far from bein^ 
alone sufficient to make a man happv, that 
the excess of it in some particulars, joined to 
a soft and feminine temper, may often give us 
the deepest wounds, and chiefly contribute to 
render us Uneasy. I might instance in pity, 
love, and friendship. In the two last passions 
it often happens, that we so entirely give up 
our hearts, as to make our happiness wholly 
depend upon another person ; a trust for which 
no human creature, however excellent, cau 
possibly give us a sufficient security. 

The man, therefore, who would be truly 
happy, must, besides an habitual virtue, dttaiu 
to such a ' strength of mind,' as to confine bis 
happiness within himself, and keep it from 
being dependent upon others. A man of this 
make will perform all those good-natured 
offices that could have been expected from 
the most bleeding pity, without being so far 
affected at the common misfortunes of human 
life, as to disturb his own repose. His actions 
of this kind are so much more meritorious than 
anotLer's, as they flow purely from a principle 
of virtue, and a sense of his duty ; whereas a 
man of a softer temper, even while he is assist- 
ing another, may in some measure be said to 
be relieving himself. 

A man endowed with that ' strength of mind' 
I am here speaking of, though he leaves it to 
his friend or mistress to make him still more 
happy, does not put it in the power of either 
to make him miserable. 

From what has been already said, it will also 
appear, that nothing can be more weak than to 
place our happiness in the applause of others, 
since by this means we make it wholly inde- 
pendent of ourselves. People of this humour, 
who place their chief felicity in reputation and 
applause, are also extremely subject to envy, 
the most painful as well as the most absurd of 
all passions. 

The surest means to attain that 'strength of 
mind,' and independent state of happiness I am 
here recommending, is a virtuous mind suffi- 
ciently furnished with ideas to support solitude, 
and keep up an agreeable conversation with 
itself. Learning is a very great help on this 
occasion, as it lays up an infinite number of 
notions in the memory, ready to be drawn 
out, and set in order upon any occasion. The 
mind often takes the same pleasure in looking 
over these her treasures, in augmenting and 
disposing them into proper forms, as a prince 
does in a review of his army. 

At the same time I must own, that as a 
mind thus furnished, feels a secret pleasure in 
the consciousness of its own perfection, and is 
delighted with such occasions as call upon it 
to try its force, a lively imagination shall pro- 

No. 32.] 



duce a pleasure very little inferior to the for- 
mer in persons of much weaker heads. As the 
first, therefore, may not be improperly called, 
' the heaven of a wise man,' the latter is ex- 
tremely well represented by our vulgar ex- 
pression, which terms it ' a fool's paradise.' 
There is, however, this difference between 
them, that as the first naturally produces that 
strength and greatness of mind I have been 
all along describing as so essential to render a 
man happy, the latter is ruffled and discom- 
posed by every accident, and lost under the 
most common misfortune. 

It is this 'strength of mind' that is not to be 
overcome by the changes of fortune, that rises 
at the sight of dangers, and could make Alex- 
ander (in that passage of his life so much ad- 
mired by the prince of Cond^,) when his army 
mutinied, bid his soldiers return to Macedon, 
and tell their countrymen that they had left 
their king conquering the world ; since for his 
part he could not doubt of raising an army 
wherever he appeared. It is this that chiefly 
exerts itself when a man is most oppressed, 
and gives him always in proportion'to whatever 
malice or injustice would deprive him of. It is 
this, in short, that makes the virtuous man 
insensibly set a value upon himself, and throws 
a varnish over his words and actions, that will 
at last command esteem, and give him a 
greater ascendant over others, than all the ad- 
vantages of birth and fortune. 

No. 32.] Friday, April 17, 1713. 

ipse vo.ens, facilisque seqnetur, 

Si te fata vocant ; aliter lion viribus ullis 

Vincaa Fjjrg. J£u. vi. 146. 

The willing metal will obey thy hand, 
Following with ease, if, favour'd by thy fate, 
Thou an foredoom'd t© view the Stygian state : 
If not no labour can the tree constrain : 
And strength of stubborn aims and steel are vain. 

Dry den. 

Having delivered my thoughts upon pastoral 
poetry, after a didactic manner, in some fore- 
going papers, wherein I have taken such hints 
from the critics as I thought rational, and de- 
parted from them according to the best of my 
iudgment, and substituted others in their place, 
I shall close the whole with the following fable 
or allegory. 

In ancient times there dwelt in a pleasant 
vale of Arcadia a man of very ample possessions, 
named Menalcas ; who, deriving his pedigree 
from the god Pan, kept very strictly up to the 
rules of the pastoral life, as it was in the golden 
age. He had a daughter, his only child, called 
Amaryllis. She was a virgin of a most en- 
chanting beauty, of a most easy and unaffected 
air ; but having been bred up wholly in the 
country, was bashful to the last degree. • She 
had a voice that was exceeding sweet, yet had 
a rusticity in its tone, which, however, to most 

who heard her seemed an additional charm. 
Though in her conversation in general she was 
very engaging, yet to her lovers, who were nu- 
merous, she was so coy, that many left her in 
disgust after a tedious courtship, and matched 
themselves where they were better received. 
For Menalcas had not only resolved to take a 
son-in-law who should inviolably maintain the 
customs of his family, but had received one 
evening as he walked in the fields, a pipe of an 
antique form from a faun, or, as some say, 
from Oberon the fairy, with a particular charge 
not to bestow his daughter upon any one who 
could not play the same tune upon it as at 
that time he entertained him with. 

When the time that he had designed to give 
her in marriage was near at hand, he published 
a decree, whereby he invited the neighbouring 
youths to make trial of this musical instrument, 
with promise that the victor should possess his 
daughter, on condition that the vanquished 
should submit to what punishment he thought 
fit to inflict. Those who were not yet discou- 
raged, and had high conceits of their own worth, 
appeared or. the appointed day, in a dress and 
equipage suitable to their respective fancies. 

The place of meeting was a flowery meadow, 
through which a clear stream murmured in 
many irregular meanders. The shepherds made 
a spacious ring for the contending lovers : and 
in one part of it there sat upon a little throne 
of turf, under an arch of eglantine and wood- 
bines, the father of the maid, and at his right 
hand the damsel crowned with roses and lilies. 
She wore a flying robe of a slight green stuff; 
she had her sheep-hook in one hand, and the 
fatal pipe in the other. 

The first who approached her was a youth 
of a graceful presence and courtly air, but drest 
in a richer habit than had ever been seen in 
Arcadia. He wore a crimson vest, cut indeed 
after the shepherd's fashion, but so enriched 
with embroidery, and sparkling with jewel*, 
that the eyes of the spectators were diverted 
from considering the mode of the garment by 
the dazzling of the ornaments. His head was 
covered with a plume of feathers, and his sheep- 
hook glittered with gold and enamel. He ac- 
costed the damsel after a very gallant manner* 
and told her,' Madam, you need not to consult 
your glass to adorn yourself to-day^ you may 
see the greatness of your beauty in the number 
of your conquests.'* She having never heard 
any compliment so polite, could give him no 
answer, but presented the pipe. He applied it 
to his lips, and began a tune which he set off 
with so many graces and quavers, that the 
shepherds and shepherdesses (who had paired 
themselves in order to dance) could not follow 
it ; as indeed it required great skill and regu- 
larity of steps, which they had never been bred 

* Vide Fontenelle. 



[No. 33. 

to. Menalcas ordered him to be stripped of 
his costly robes, and to be clad in a russet weed, 
and confined hiin to tend the flocks in the 
rallies for a year and a day. 

The second that appeared was in a very dif- 
ferent garb. He was clothed in a garment of 
rough goat-skins, his hair was matted, his 
beard neglected ; in his person uncouth, and 
awkward in his gait. He came up fleering to 
the nymph, and told her ' he had hugged his 
lambs, and kissed his young kids, but be hoped 
to kiss one that was sweeter.'* 'The fair one 
blushed with modesty and anger, and prayed 
secretly against him as she gave him the pipe. 
He snatched it from her, but with some diffi- 
culty made it sound ; which was in such harsh 
and jarring motes, that the shepherds cried one 
and all that he understood no music. He was 
immediately ordered to the most craggy parts 
of Arcadia, to keep the goats, and commanded 
never to touch a pipe any more. 

The third that advanced appeared in clothes 
that were so strait and uneasy to him, that he 
seemed to move with pain. He marched up 
to the maiden with a thoughtful look and 
stately pace, and said, ' Divine Amaryllis, you 
wear not those roses to improve your beauty, 
but to make them ashamed. 'f As she did not 
comprehend his meaning, she presented the 
instrument without reply. The tune that he 
played was so intricate and perplexing, that 
the shepherds stood stock-still, like people 
astonished and confounded. In vain did he plead 
that it was the perfection of music, and com-< 
posed by the most skilful master in Hesperia. 
Mcnalcas, finding that he was a stranger, hos- 
pitably took compassion on him, and delivered 
him to an old shepherd, who was ordered to 
get him clothes that would fit him, and teach 
him to speak plain. 

The fourth that stepped forwards was young 
Amyntas, the most beautiful of all the Arca- 
dian swains, and secretly beloved by Amaryllis. 
He wore that day the same colours as the maid 
for whom he sighed. He moved towards her 
with an easy but unassured air: she blushed 
as he came near her, and when she* gave him 
the fatal present, they both trembled, but 
neither could speak. Having secretly breathed 
his vows to the gods, he poured forth such 
melodious notes, that though they were a little 
wild and irregular, they filled every heart with 
delight. The swains immediately mingled in 
the dance; and the old shepherds affirmed, 
that they had often heard such music by night, 
which they imagined to be played by some of 
the rural deities. The good old man leaped 
from his throne, and, after be had embraced 
him, presented him to his daughter, which 
caused a general acclamation. 

While they were in the midst of their joy, 

• Vide Theocritiw. 

Yi'l ■ T.ts.-o. 

they were surprised with a very odd appear- 
ance. A person in a blue mantle, crowned 
with sedges and rushes, stepped into the middle 
of the ring. He had an angling rod in his 
hand, a pannier upon his back, and a poor 
meagre wretch in wet clothes carried seme 
oysters before him. Being asked, whence he 
came, and what he was? He told them, he 
was come to invite Amaryllis from the plains 
to the seashore, that his substance consisted 
in sea-calves, and that he was acquainted with 
the Nereids and the Naiads. ' Art thou ac> 
quainted with the Naiads?' said Menalcas : 
to them then shalt thou return.' The shep- 
herds immediately hoisted him up as an enemy 
to Arcadia, and plunged him in the river, where 
he sunk, and was never heard of since. 

Amyntas and Amaryllis lived a long and 
happy life, and governed the vales of Arcadia. 
Their generation was very long-lived, there 
having been but four descents in above two 
thousand years. His heir was called Theocritus, 
who left his dominions to Virgil; Virgil left 
his to his son Spenser ; and Spenser was suc- 
ceeded by his eldest- born, Philips. 

!"p. iv. 

No. 33. Saturday, April 18,1713. 

Dignutn sapicnte, bonoque est. 

liar. Lib. 1. 

Worthy a wise man, and a good. 

I HAVE made it a rule to myself, not to pub 
lish any thing on a Saturday, but what shali 
have some analogy to the duty of the day en- 
suing. It is an unspeakable pleasure to me, 
that I have lived to see the time when I can 
observe such a law to myself, and yet turn my 
discourse upon what is done at the playhouse. 
I am sure the reader knows 1 am going to 
mention the tragedy of Cato. The principal 
character is moved by no consideration but 
respect to that sort of virtue, the sense of w hich 
is retained in our language under the word 
Public Spirit. All regards to his domestic are 
wholly laid aside, and the hero is drawn as 
having by this motive, subdued instinct itself, 
and taking comfort from the distresses of his 
family, which are brought upon them by their 
adherence to the cause of truth and liberty. 
There is nothing uttered by Cato but what is 
worthy the best of men; and the sentiments 
which are given him are not only the most 
warm for the conduct of this life, but such as 
we may think will not need to be erased, but 
consist with the happiness of the human soul 
in the next. This illustrious character has its 
proper influence on all below it : the other vir- 
tuous personages are, in their degree, as worthy, 
and as exemplary, as the principal ; the con- 
duct of the lovers (who are more warm, though 
more discreet, than ever yet appeared on the 
stage) basin it a constant sense of the great 
catastrophe which was expected from the ap- 

No. 33.] 



proach of Caesar. But to see the modesty of 
a heroine, whose country and family were at 
the same time in the most imminent danger, 
preserved, while she breaks out into the most 
fond and open expressions of her passion for 
her lover, is an instance of no common address. 
Again, to observe the body of a gallant young 
man brought before us, who, in the bloom of 
his youth, in the defence of all that is good 
and great, had received numberless wounds : 
I say, to observe that this dead youth is intro- 
duced only for the example of his virtue, and 
that his death is so circumstantiated, that we 
are satisfied, for all his virtue, it was for the 
good of the world, and his own family, that 
his warm temper was not to be put upon far- 
ther trial, but his task of life ended while it 
was yet virtuous, is an employment worthy the 
consideration of our young Britons. We are 
obliged to authors, that can do what they will 
with us, that they do not play our affections 
and passions against ourselves ; but to make 
us so soon resigned to the death of Marcus, of 
whom we were so fond, is a power that would 
be unfortunately lodged in a man without the 
love of virtue. 

Were it not that I speak, on this occasion, 
rather as a Guardian than a critic, I could 
proceed to the examination of the justness of 
each character, and take notice that the Nu- 
midian is as well drawn as the Roman. There 
is not an idea in all the part of Syphax which 
does not apparently arise from the habits which 
grow in the mind of an African ; and the scene 
between Juba and his general, where they talk 
for and against a liberal education, is full of 
instruction. Syphax urges all that can be said 
against philosophy, as it is made subservient 
to ill ends, by men who abuse their talents ; 
and Juba sets the less excellencies of activity, 
labour, patience of hunger, and strength of 
body, which are the admired qualifications of 
a Numidian, in their proper subordination to 
the accomplishments of the mind. But this 
play is so well reeommended by others, that 
I will not for that, and some private reasons, 
enlarge any farther. Doctor Garth has very 
agreeably rallied the mercenary traffic between 
men and women of this age, in the epilogue, 
by Mrs. Porter, who acted Lucia. And Mr. 
Pope has prepared the audience for a new 
scene of passion and transport on a more noble 
foundation than they have before been enter- 
tained with, in the prologue. I shall take the 
liberty to gratify the impatience of the town 
by inserting these two excellent pieces, as 
earnests of the work itself, which will be printed 
within few days. 



To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, 
To raise the genius, and to mend the heart ; 

To make mankind in conscious virtue bold, 
Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold : 
For this the tragic muse first trod the stage, 
Commanding tears to stream thro' every age ; 
Tyrants no more their savage nature kept, 
And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept. 
Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move 
The hero's glory, or the virgin's love ; 
In pitying love we but our weakness show, 
And wild ambition well deserves its woe. 
Here tears shall flow from a more gen'rous cause, 
Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws : 
He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise, 
And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes ; 
Virtue confess'd in human shape he draws, 
What Plato thought, and god-like Cato was. 
No common object to your sight displays ; 
But what with pleasure Heaven itself survey?, 
A brave man struggling in the storms of fate, 
And greatly falling with a falling state. 
While Cato gives his little senate laws, 
What bosom beats not in his country's cause ? 
Who sees him act, but envies every deed ? 
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed i 
Ev'n when proud Caesar, 'midst triumphal cars, 
The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars, 
Ignobly vain, and impotently great, 
Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state ; 
As her dead father's rev'rend image past, 
The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercast, 
The triumph ceas'd— tears gush'd from ev'ry eye v 
The world's great victor past unheeded by ; 
Her last good man dejected Rome ador'd, 
And honour'd Caesar's less than Cato's sword. 
Britons attend : be worth like this approv'd, 
And show you have the virtue to be mov'd. 
With honest scorn the first-fam'd Cato view'd 
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subclu'd. 
Our scene precariously subsists too long 
On French translation, and Italian song : 
Dare to have sense yourselves, assert the stage, 
Be justly warm'd with your own native rage : 
Such plays alone should please a British ear, 
As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear. 



What odd fantastic things we women do ! ^ 

Who would not listen when young lovers woo 1 L 

What ! die a maid yet have the choice of two ! J 

Ladies are often cruel to their cost : 

To give you pain, themselves they punish most. 

Vows of virginity should well be weigh'd ; 

Too oft they're cancel'd, tho' in convents made. 

Would you revenge such rash resolves you may** 

Be spiteful and believe the thing we say ; > 

We hate you when you're easily said Nay. J 

How needless* if you kuew us, were your fears ; 
Let love have eyes, and beauty will have ears, 
Our hearts are form'd as you yourselves would choose, 
Too proud to ask, too humble to refuse : 
We give to merit, and to wealth we sell; 
He sighs with most success that settles well. 
The woes of wedlock with the joys we mix ; 
'Tis best repenting in a coach and six. 
Elame not our conduct, since we but pursue 
Those lively lessons we have learned from yon : 
Your breasts no more the fire of beauty warms ; 
But wicked wealth usurps the power of charms : 
What pains to get the gaudy thing you hate, 
To swell in show, and be a wretch in state ! 
At plays you ogle, at the ring you bow ; 
Ev'n churches are no sanctuaries now : 
There golden idols all your vows receive : 
She is no goddess who has nought to give. 
Oh may once more the happy age appear, 
When words were artless, and the soul sincere ; 
When gold and grandeur were unenvy'd things, 
And crowns less coveted than groves and springs. 
Love then shall only mourn when truth complain*, 
And constancy feel transport in its chains ; 
Sighs with suecess their own soft anguish tell, 
And eyes shall utter what the lips conceal ; 



[No. 34, 

Viiinc again to its biislu station climb, 
And beauty ft >r no I -in-iny but time: 

1 ho in. mall listen to desert alone, 
Ainl every Lucia rind a Catos sou. 

No. 34.] Monday, April 'JO, 17 1; 

Mores lnultorcin vidit- 

lloi\ Ars Poet. ver. 142. 
lie many men and many manners siw. 
It is a most vexatious thing to an old man, 
who endeavours to square his notions by reason, 
and to talk from reflection and experience, to 
fall in with a circle of young ladies at their 
afternoon tea-table. This happened very lately 
to be my fate. The conversation, for the first 
half-hour, was so very rambling, that it is hard 
to say what was talked of, or who spoke least 
to the purpose. The various motions of the 
fan, the tossings of the head, intermixed with 
all the pretty kinds of laughter, made up the 
greatest part of the discourse. At last, this 
modish way of shining, and being witty, settled 
into something like conversation, and the talk 
ran upon ' fine gentlemen.' From the several 
characters that were given, and the exceptions 
that were made, as this or that gentleman 
happened to be named, I found that a lady is 
not difficult to be pleased, and that the town 
swarms with fine gentlemen. A nimble pair 
of heels, a smooth complexion, a full-bottom 
wig, a laced shirt, an embroidered suit, a pair 
of fringed gloves, a hat and feather ; any one 
or more of these and the like accomplishments 
ennobles a man, and raises him above the 
vulgar, in a female imagination. On the con- 
trary, a modest serious behaviour, a plain 
dress, a thick pair of shoes, a leathern belt, 
a waistcoat not lined with silk, and such like 
imperfections, degrade a man, and are so many 
blots in his escutcheon. I could not forbear 
smiling at one of the prettiest and liveliest of 
this gay assembly, who excepted to the gen- 
tility of sir William Hearty, because he wore a 
frieze coat, and breakfasted upon toast and ale. 
I pretended to admire the fineness of her taste ; 
and to strike in with her in ridiculing those 
awkward healthy gentlemen, that seem to make 
nourishment the chief end of eating. I gave 
her an account of an honest Yorkshire gen- 
tleman, who (when I was a traveller) used to 
invite his acquaintance at Paris to break their 
fast with him upon cold roast beef and mum. 
There was, I remember, a little French mar- 
quis, who was often pleased to rally him unmer- 
cifully upon beef and pudding, of which our 
countryman would despatch a pound or two 
with great alacrity, while this antagonist was 
piddling at a mushroom, or the haunch of a 
frog. I could perceive the lady was pleased 
with what I said, and we parted very good 
friends, by virtue of a maxim I always observe, 
Never to contradict or reason with a sprightly 
female. 1 went home, however, full of a great 

many serious reflections, upon \\ hat had parsed 
and though, in complaisance, I disguised my 
sentiment 5, to keep up t lie good humour of 
my fair companions, and to avoid being looked 
upon as a testy old fellow, yet out of the good- 
will I bear to the sex, and to prevent for the 
future their being imposed upon by counter- 
feits, I shall give them the distinguishing marks 
of ' a true fine gentleman.' 

When a good artist would express any re- 
markable character in sculpture, he endeavours 
to work up his figure into all the perfections 
his imagination can form ; and to imitate not 
so much what is, as what may or ought to be. 
I shall follow their example, in the idea I am 
going to trace out of a fine gentleman, by 
assembling together such qualifications as seem 
requisite to make the character complete. In 
order to this I shall premise in general, that 
by a fine gentleman I mean a man complete^ 
qualified as well for the service and good, as 
for the ornament and delight of society. When 
I consider the frame of mind peculiar to a gen- 
tleman, I suppose it graced with all the dignity 
and elevation of spirit than human nature is 
capable of. To this I would have joined a 
clear understanding, a reason free from pre- 
judice, a steady judgment, and an extensive 
knowledge. When J think of the heart of a 
gentleman, I imagine it firm and intrepid, void 
of all inordinate passions, and full of tender- 
ness, compassion, and benevolence. When I 
view the fine gentleman with regard to his 
manners, methinks I see him modest without 
bashfulness, frank and affable without imper- 
tinence, obliging and complaisant without 
servility, cheerful and in good humour without 
noise. These amiable qualities are not easily 
obtained ; neither are there many men that 
have a genius to excel this way. A finished 
gentleman is perhaps the most uncommon of 
all the great characters in life. Besides the 
natural endowments with which this distin- 
guished man is to be born, he must run through 
a long series of education. Before he makes 
his appearance and shines in the world, he 
must be principled in religion, instructed in 
all the moral virtues, and led through the 
whole course of the polite arts and sciences. 
He should be no stranger to courts and to 
camps ; he must travel to open his mind, to 
enlarge his views, to learn the policies and in- 
terests of foreign states, as well as to fashion 
and polish himself, and to get clear of national 
prejudices, of which every country has its 
share. To all these more essential improve- 
ments, he must not forget to add the fashion- 
able ornaments of life, such as are the lan- 
guages and the bodily exercises most in vogue; 
neither would I have him think even dress 
itself beneath his notice. 

It is no very uncommon thing in the world 
to meet with men of probity; there are like- 

No. 35.] 



wise a great many men of honour to be found. 
Men of courage^ men of sense, and men of 
letters are frequent ; but a true fine gentleman 
is what one seldom sees. He is properly a 
compound of the various good qualities that 
embellish mankind. As the great poet ani- 
mates all the different parts of learning by the 
force of his genius, and irradiates all the com- 
pass of his knowledge by the lustre and bright- 
ness of his imagination ; so all the great and 
solid perfections of life appear in the finished 
gentleman, with a beautiful gloss and varnish ; 
every thing he says or does is accompanied with 
a manner, or rather a charm, that draws the 
admiration and good-will of every beholder. 


For the benefit of my female readers. 

N. B. The gilt chariot, the diamond ring, 
the gold snuff-box, and brocade sword-knot, 
are no essential parts of a fine gentleman ; but 
may be used by him, provided he casts his eye 
upon them but once a day. 

No. 35.'] Tuesday, April 21, 1713. 
O vitas Philosophic dux, virUUis indagatrixl Cicero. 
O Philosophy, thou guide of life, and discoverer of virtue ! 
' To Nestor Ironside, Esquire. 


* I am a man who have spent great part of 
that time in rambling through foreign coun- 
tries which young gentlemen usually pass at 
the university ; by which course of life, although 
I have acquired no small insight into the man- 
ners and conversation of men, yet I could not 
make proportionable advances in the way of 
science and speculation. In my return through 
France, as I was one day setting forth this my 
case to a certain gentleman of that nation, 
with whom 1 had contracted a friendship ; after 
some pause, he conducted me into his closet, 
and opening a little amber cabinet, took from 
thence a small box of snuff, which he said was 
given him by an uncle of his, the author of The 
Voyage to the World of Descartes ; and, with 
many professions of gratitude and affection, 
made me a present of it, telling me, at the 
same time, that he knew no readier way to 
furnish and adorn a mind with knowledge in 
the arts and sciences, than that same snuff 
rightly applied. 

" You must know," said he, " that Descartes 
was the first who discovered a certain part of the 
brain, called by anatomists the Pineal Gland, 
to be the immediate receptacle of the soul, 
where she is affected with all sorts of percep- 
tions, and exerts all her operations by the in- 
tercourse of the animal spirits which run through 
the nerves that are thence extended to all parts 
of the body." He added, " that the same philo- 
sopher haying considered the body as a machine, 

or piece of clock-work, which performed all 
the vital operations without the concurrence 
of the will, began to think a way may be found 
out for separating the soul for some time from 
the body, without any injury to the latter; 
and that, after much meditation on that sub 
ject, the above-mentioned virtuoso composed 
the snuff he then gave me ; which, if taken in 
a certain quantity, would not fail to disengage 
my soul from my body. Your soul (continued 
he) being at liberty to transport herself with a 
thought wherever she pleases, may enter into the 
pineal gland of the most learned philosopher, 
and being so placed, become spectator of all 
the ideas in his mind, which would instruct 
her in a much less time than the usual me- 
thods." I returned him thanks, and accepted 
his present, and with it a paper of directions. 

* You may imagine it was no small improve- 
ment and diversion, to pass my time in the 
pineal glands of philosophers, poets, beaux, 
mathematicians, ladies, and statesmen. One 
while to trace a theorem in mathematics 
through a long labyrinth of intricate turns, 
and subtleties of thought ; another to be con- 
scious of the sublime ideas and comprehensive 
▼iews of a philosopher, without any fatigue or 
wasting of my own spirits. Sometimes to 
wander through perfumed groves, or enameled 
meadows, in the fancy of a poet : at others to 
be present when a battle or a storm raged, or 
a glittering palace rose in his imagination ; 
or to behold the pleasures of a country life, 
the passion of a generous love, or the warmth 
of devotion wrought up to rapture. Or (to 
use the words of a very ingenious author) to 

' Behold the raptures which a writer knows, 
When in his breast a vein of fancy glov. s, 
Behold his business while he works the mine, 
Behold his temper when he sees it shine. 

Essay on the different styles of poetry. 

* These gave me inconceivable pleasure. Nor 
was it an unpleasant entertainment, sometimes 
to descend from these sublime and magnificent 
ideas to the impertinencies of a beau, the dry 
schemes of a coffee-house politician, or the 
tender images in the mind of a young lady. 
And, as in order to frame a right idea of human 
happiness, I thought it expedient to make a trial 
of the various manners wherein men of different 
pursuits were affected, I one day entered into 
the pineal gland of a certain person, who seemed 
very fit to give me an insight into all that 
which constitutes the happiness of him who 
is called a Man of Pleasure. But I found my- 
self not a little disappointed iti my notion of 
the pleasures which attend a voluptuary, who 
has shaken off the restraints of re-ason. 

* His intellectuals. I observed, were grown 
unserviceable by too little use, and his senses 
were decayed and worn out by too much. That 
perfect inaction of the higher powers pre- 
vented appetite in prompting him to sensual 



[No. 36. 

gratifications; and the outrunning natural 
appetite produced a loathing instead of a plea- 
sun-. 1 there beheld the intemperate cravings 
tif youth, without the enjoyments of it; and 
the ireakllCM of old age, without its tranquil- 
lity. When the passions were teazed and 
BDUBed by some powerful object, the effect was 
not to delight or sooth the mind, but to tor- 
tirre it between the returning extremes of ap- 
petites, and satiety. 1 saw a wretch racked at 
the same time, with a painful remembrance of 
past miscarriages, a distaste of the present ob- 
jects that solicit his senses, and a secret dread 
of futurity. And I could see no manner of 
relief or comfort in the soul of this miserable 
man, but what consisted in preventing his cure, 
by inflaming his passions, and suppressing his 
reason. But though it must be owned he had 
almost quenched that light which his Creator 
had set up in his soul, yet, in spite of all his 
efforts, I observed at certain seasons frequent 
flashes of remorse strike through the gloom, 
and interrupt that satisfaction he enjoyed in 
hiding his own deformities from himself. 

* I was also present at the original formation 
or production of a certain book in the mind 
of a free-thinker, and believing it may not be 
unacceptable to let you into the secret manner 
and internal principles by which that pheno- 
menon was formed, I shall in my next give 
you an account of it. 

' 1 am, in the mean time, 
' Your most obedient humble servant, 


N. B. Mr. Ironside has lately received out of 
France ten pounds avoirdupois weight of this 
philosophical snuff, and gives notice that he will 
make use of it, in order to distinguish the real 
from the professed sentiments of all persons of 
eminence in court, city, town, and country. 

No. 36.] Wednesday, April 22> 1713. 

J'uuica se quantis attollet gloria rebus ! 

Virg. S.\\. iv. 49- 
What rebus's exalt the pnnnic fame! 

The gentleman who doth me the favour to 
write the following letter, saith as much for 
himself as the thing will bear. I am particu- 
larly pleased to find, that in his Apology for 
Punning be only celebrates the art, as it is a 
part of conversation* I look upon premeditated 
quibbles, and puns committed to the press, as 
unpardonable crimes. There is as much dif- 
ference betwixt these and the starts in com- 
mon discourse, as betwixt casual rencounters, 
and murder with malice prepense. 

' To Nestor Ironside, Esquire. 
• BIB, 
I have from your writings conceived such 
an opinion of your benevolence to mankind, 

that I trust you will not suffer any art to be 
vilified which helps to polish and adorn us. 
I do not know any sort of wit that hath been 
used so reproachfully as the Pun : and 1 per- 
suade myself that I shall merit your esteem, 
by recommending it to your protection ; since 
there can be no greater glory to a generous 
soul, than to succour the distrest. I shall, 
therefore, without farther preface, offer to 
your consideration the following Modest Apo- 
logy for Punning; wherein I shall make use of 
no double meanings or equivocations: since 
I think it unnecessary to give it any other 
praises than truth and common sense, its pro- 
fessed enemies, are forced to grant. 

In order to make this a useful work, I 
shall state the nature and extent of the pun, 
I shall discover the advantages that flow from 
it, the moral virtues that it produces, and the 
tendency that it hath to promote vigour of 
body and ease of mind. 

' The pun is defined by one, who seems to 
be no well-wisher to it, to be " A conceit 
arising from the use of two words that agree 
in the sound, but differ in the sense." Now 
if this be the essense of the pun, how great 
must we allow the dignity of it to be, when 
we consider that it takes in most of the consi- 
derable parts of learning ; for is it not most cer- 
tain, that all learned disputes are rather about 
sounds than sense ? Are not the controversies 
of divines about the different interpretations 
of terms ? Are not the disputations of philoso- 
phers about words, and all their pompous dis- 
tinctions only so many unravellings of double 
meanings ? Who ever lost his estate in West- 
minster-hall, but complained that he was quib- 
bled out of his right ? or what monarch ever 
broke a treaty, but by virtue of equivocation ? 
In short, so great is the excellence of this art, 
so diffusive its influence, that when I go into 
a library, I say to myself, " What volumes of 
puns do I behold !" When 1 look upon the men 
of business, I cry out, " How powerful is the 
tribe of the quibblers !" When 1 see statesmen 
and ambassadors, I reflect, " How splendid the 
equipage of the quirk ! in what pomp do the 
punsters appear!" 

* But as there are serious puns, such as 
I have instanced in, so likewise there are 
puns comical. These are what I would re- 
commend to my countrymen ; which I shall 
do by displaying the advantanges flowing from 

' The first advantage of punning is, that it 
gives us the compass of our own language. This 
is very obvious. For the great business of the 
punster is to hunt out the several words in our 
tongue that agree in sound, and have various 
significations. By this means he will likewise 
enter into the nicety of spelling, an accomplish- 
ment regarded only by middling people, and 
much neglected by persons of great and no 

No. 36.] 



quality. This error may produce unnecessary 
folios amongst grammarians yet unborn. But 
to proceed. A man of learning hath, in this 
manner of wit, great advantages ; as indeed, 
what advantages do not flow from learning ? 
If the pun fails in English, he may have 
speedy recourse to the Latin, or the Greek, 
and so on. I have known wonders performed 
by this secret, i have heard the French as- 
sisted by the German, the Dutch mingle with 
the Italian, and where the jingle hath seemed 
desperate in the Greek, 1 have known it revive 
in the Hebrew. My friend Dick Babel hath 
often, to show his parts, started a conceit at 
the ecpuinoctial, and pursued it through all the 
degrees of latitude ; and, after he had punned 
round the globe, hath sat down like Alexander, 
and mourned that he had no more worlds to 

* Another advantage in punning is, that it 
ends disputes, or, what is all one, puns comical 
destroy puns serious. Any man that drinks a 
bottle knows very well, that about twelve, 
people that do not Uiss, or cry, are apt to de- 
bate. This often occasions heats and heart- 
burnings, unless one of the disputants vouch- 
safes to end the matter with a joke. How 
often have Aristotle and Cartesius been recon- 
ciled by a merry conceit ! how often have whigs 
and tories shook hands over a quibble ! and 
the clashing of swords been prevented by the 
jingling of words ! 

1 Attention of mind is another benefit en- 
joyed by punsters. This is discoverable from 
the perpetual gape of the company where they 
are, and the earnest desire to know what was 
spoken last, if a word escapes any one at the 
table. I must add, that quick apprehension is 
required in the hearer, readily to take some 
things which are very far-fetched ; as likewise 
great vivacity in the performer, to reconcile dis- 
tant and even hostile ideas by the mere mimicry 
of words, and energy of sound. 

' Mirth or good-humour is the last advantage, 
that, out of a million, I shall produce to re- 
commend punning. But this will more natu- 
rally fall in when I come to demonstrate its 
operation upon the mind and body. I shall 
now discover what moral virtues it promotes ; 
and shall content myself with instancing in 
those which every reader will allow of. 

' A punster is adorned with humility. This 
our adversaries will not deny ; because they hold 
it to be a condescension in any man to trifle, as 
they arrogantly call it, with words. I must, 
however, confess, for my own share, I never 
punned out of the pride of my heart, nor did 
I ever know one of our fraternity, that seemed 
to be troubled with the thirst of glory. * 

* The virtue called urbanity by the moralists, 
or a courtly behaviour, is much cultivated by 
this science. For the whole spirit of urbanity 
consists in a desire to please the company, and 

what else is the design of the punster ? Accord- 
ingly we find such bursts of laughter, such agi- 
tations of the sides, such contortions of the 
limbs, such earnest attempts to recover the dy- 
ing laugh, such transport in the enjoyment of it 
in equivocating assemblies, as men of common 
sense are amazed at, and own they never felt. 

' But nothing more displays itself in the 
punster, than justice, the queen of all the vir- 
tues. At the quibbling board every performer 
hath its due. The soul is struck at once, and 
the body recognizes the merit of each joke, by 
sudden and comical emotions. Indeed, how 
should it be otherwise, where not only words, 
but even syllables have justice done them; 
where no man invades the right of another, but, 
with perfect innocence and good-nature, takes 
as much delight in his neighbour's joy as in 
his own ? 

* From what hath been advanced, it will 
easily appear, that this science contributes to 
ease of body, and serenity of mind. You have, 
in a former precaution, advised your hectica 
readers to associate with those of our brother- 
hood, who are, for the most part, of a corpulent 
make, and a round vacant countenance. It is 
natural the next morning, after a merriment, 
to reflect how we behaved ourselves the night 
before : and I appeal to any one, whether it 
will not occasion greater peace of mind to con 
sider, that he hath only been waging harmless 
war with words, than if he had stirred his 
brother to wrath, grieved the soul of his neigh- 
bour by calumny, or increased his own wealth 
by fraud. As for health of body, I look upon 
punning as a nostrum, a Mtdicina Gymnastica, 
that throws off all the bad humours, and occa- 
sions such a brisk circulation of the blood, as 
keeps the lamp of life in a clear and constant 
flame. I speak, as all physicians ought to do 
from experience. A friend of mine, who had 
the ague this spring, was, after the failing of 
several medicines and charms, advised by me 
to enter into a course of quibbling. He threw 
his electuaries out at his window, and took 
Abracadabra off from his neck, and by the 
mere force of punning upon that long magica 
word, threw himself into a fine breathing sweat 
and a quiet sleep. He is now in a fair way of 
recovery, and says pleasantly, he is less obliged 
to the Jesuits for their powder, than for their 

' Sir, this is my Modest Apology for Pun- 
ning ; which I was the more encouraged to 
undertake, because we have a learned univer- 
sity where it is in request, and I am told that 
a famous club hath given it protection. If this 
meets with encouragement, I shall write a vin- 
dication of the rebus, and do justice to the 
conundrum. I have indeed looked philosophi- 
cally into their natures, and made a sort of 
Arbor Porphyriana of the several subordi- 
nations and divisions of low wit. Th'»3 the 



[Xo. 3 

ladiei perbapi may not understand ; but I 
shall thereby ^iN »• the beam an opportunity of 
ihowing their learning; 

' I am Sir, 

* With great respect 
1 Your most obedient humble servant.' 

No. 37.] Thursday, Aj)ril 23, 1713. 

Mc ducc damn oku homines compescite curas. 

Olid. Rem. Amor. ver. fiO. 

Learn, mortals, from my precepts to contioul 
The furious passions that disturb the soul. 

It is natural for an old man to be fond of 
such entertainments as revive in his imagination 
the agreeable impressions made upon it in his 
youth : the set of wits and beauties he was 
first acquainted with, the balls and drawing- 
rooms in which he made an agreeable figure, 
the music and actors he heard and saw when 
his life was fresh, and his spirits vigorous and 
quick, have usually the preference in his esteem 
to any succeeding pleasures that present them- 
selves when his taste is grown more languid. 
It is for this reason I never see a picture of 
sir Peter Lely's, who drew so many of my first 
friends and acquaintance, without a sensible 
delight; and I am in raptures when I reflect 
on the compositions of the famous Mr. Henry 
Laws, long before Italian music was introduced 
into our nation. Above all, I am pleased in 
observing that the tragedies of Shakspeare, 
which in my youthful days have so frequently 
filled my eyes with tears, hold their rank still, 
and are the great support of our theatre. 

It was with this agreeable prepossession of 
mind, I went some time ago, to see the old 
tragedy of Othello, and took my female wards 
with me, having promised them a little before 
to carry them to the first play of Shakspeare's 
which should be acted. Mrs. Cornelia, who is 
a great reader, and never fails to peruse the 
ulay bills, which are brought to her every day, 
gave me notice of it early in the morning. 
When I came to my lady Lizard's at dinner, I 
found the young folks all drest, and expecting 
the performance of my promise. I went with 
them at the proper time, placed them together 
ni the boxes, and myself by them in a corner 
6eat. As I have the chief scenes of the play 
by heart, I did not look much on the stage, 
out formed to myself a new satisfaction in 
Keening an eye on the faces of my little audience, 
;.ud observing, as it were by reflection, the 
different passions of the play represented in 
their countenances. Mrs. Betty told us the 
names of several persons of distinction, as they 
took tin ir places in the boxes, and enter- 
tained us with the history of a new marriage 
or two till the curtain drew up. I soon per- 
ceived that Mrs. Jane was touched with the 
bve of Desdemona, and in a concern to see 
Jow she would come oil with her parents. 

Annabella had a rambling eye, and for some 
time was more taken up with observing what 
gentleman looked at her, and with criticising 
tin dress of the ladies, than with any thing 
that passed on the stage. Mrs. Cornelia, who 
I have often said is addicted to the study of 
romances, commended that speech in the play 
in which Othello mentions his ' hair- breadth 
scapes in th' imminent deadly breach,' and 
recites his travels and adventures with which 
he had captivated the heart of Desdemona. 
The Sparkler looked several times frighted; 
ami as the distress of the play was heightened, 
their different attention was collected, and 
fixed wholly on the stage, till I saw them all, 
with a secret satisfaction, betrayed into tears. 
I have often considered this play as a noble, 
but irregular, production of a genius which had 
the power of animating the theatre beyond any 
writer we have ever known. The touches of 
nature in it are strong and masterly; but the 
economy of the fable, and in some particulars 
the probability, are too much neglected. If I 
would speak of it in the most severe terms, I 
should say as Waller does of the Maid's Tragedy, 

' Great are its faults, but glorious is its flame.' 

But it would be a poor employment in a 
critic to observe upon the faults, and show no 
taste for the beauties, in a work that has al- 
ways struck the most sensible part of our au- 
diences in a very forcible manner. 

The chief subject of this piece is the passion 
of jealousy, which the poet has represented 
at large, in its birth, its various workings and 
agonies, and its horrid consequeuces. From 
this passion and the innocence and simplicity 
of the person suspected, arises a very moving 

It is a remark, as I remember, of a modern 
writer, who is thought to have penetrated 
deeply into the nature of the passions, that 
' the most extravagant love is nearest to the 
strongest hatred.' The Moor is furious in both 
these extremes. His love is tempestuous, and 
mingled with a wildness peculiar to his cha- 
racter, which seems very artfully to prepare 
for the change which is to follow. 

How savage, yet how ardent is that expres- 
sion of the raptures of his heart, when, looking 
after Desdemona as she withdraws, he breaks 

* Excellent wrrtchl Perdition catch my soal 
Bnt l <i>> love iheej and when 1 love Lkee uot, 
(.'bans is come again. 1 

The deep and subtle villany of (ago, in 
working this change from love to jealousy, in 
so tumultuous a mind as that of Othello, pre- 
possessed with a confidence in the disinterested 
affection of the man who is leading him on in- 
sensibly to his ruin, is likewise drawn with a 
masterly hand. lago's broken hints, questions, 
and Iteming care to hide the reason of them j 

No. 37J 



his obscure suggestions to raise the curiosity of 
the Moor; his personated confusion, and re- 
fusing to explain himself while Othello is drawn 
on, and held in suspense till he grows impatient 
and angry; then his throwing in the poison, 
and naming to him in a caution the passion he 
would raise, 

« O beware of jealousy ! — : ' 

are inimitable strokes of art, in that scene 
which has always been justly esteemed one of 
the best which was ever represented on the 

To return to the character of Othello; his 
strife of passions, his starts, his returns of love, 
and threatenings to Iago, who put his mind 
on the rack, his relapses afterwards to jealousy, 
his rage against his wife, and his asking pardon 
of Iago, whom he thinks he had abused for his 
fidelity to him, are touches which no one can 
overlook that has the sentiments of human 
nature, or has considered the heart of man in 
its frailties, its penances, and all the variety of 
its agitations. The torments which the Moor 
suffers are so exquisitely drawn, as to render 
him as much an object of compassion, even in 
the barbarous action of murdering Desdemona, 
as the innocent person herself who falls under 
his hand. 

But there is nothing in which the poet has 
more shown his judgment in this play, than in 
the circumstance of the handkerchief, which 
is employed as a confirmation to the jealousy 
of Othello already raised. What I would here 
observe is, that the very slightness of this cir- 
cumstance is the beauty it. How finely has 
Shakspeare expressed the nature of jealousy 
in those lines, which, on this occasion, be puts 
into the mouth of Iago, 

'Trifles light as air 
Are to the jealous, confirmation strong 
As proofs of holy writ.' 

It would be easy for a tasteless critic to turn 
any of the beauties I have here mentioned into 
ridicule ; l,«it such a one would only betray a 
mechanical judgment, formed out of borrowed 
rules and common-place reading, and not aris- 
ing from any true discernment in human na- 
ture, and its passions. 

As the moral of this tragedy is an admirable 
caution against hasty suspicions, and the giving 
way to the first transports of rage and jealousy, 
which may plunge a man in a few minutes 
into all the horrors of guilt, distraction, and 
ruin, I shall further enforce it, by relating a 
scene of misfortunes of the like kind, which 
really happened some yearc ago in Spain ; and 
is an instance of the most tragical hurricane 
of passion I have ever met with in history. It 
may be easily conceived that a heart ever big 
with resentments of its own dignity, and never 
allayed by reflections which make us honour 

ourselves for acting with reason and equality, 
will take fire precipitautly. It will on a sudden 
flame too high to be extinguished. The short 
story I am going to tell is a lively instance of 
the truth of this observation, and a just warn- 
ing to those of jealous honour to look about 
them, and begin to possess their souls as they 
ought, for no man of spirit knows how terrible 
a creature he is, till he comes to be provoked. 

Don Alonzo, a Spanish nobleman, had a 
beautiful and virtuous wife, with whom he had 
lived for some years in great tranquillity. The 
gentleman, however, was not free from the 
faults usually imputed to his nation ; he was 
proud, suspicious, and impetuous. He kept a 
Moor in his house, whom, on a complaint from 
his lady, he had punished for a small offence 
with the utmost seventy. The slave vowed 
revenge, and communicated his resolution to 
one of the lady's women with whom he lived 
in a criminal way. This creature also hated 
her mistress, for she feared she was observed 
by her ; she therefore undertook to make Don 
Alonzo jealous, by insinuating that the gar- 
dener was often admitted to his lady in private, 
and promising to make him an eye-witness of 
it. At a proper time agreed on between her 
and the Morisco, she sent a message to the 
gardener, that his lady, having some hasty 
orders to give him, would have him come that 
moment to her in her chamber. In the meac 
time she had placed Alonzo privately in afi 
outer room, that he might observe who passed 
that way. It was not long before he saw the 
gardener appear. Alonzo had not patience, 
but following him into the apartment, struck 
him at one blow with a dagger to the heart ; 
then dragging his lady by the hair without in- 
quiring father, he instantly kSled her. 

Here he paused, looking on the dead bodies 
with all the agitations of a demon of revenge ; 
when the wench who bad occasioned these 
terrors, distracted with remorse, threw herself 
at his feet, and in a voice of lamentation, with- 
out sense of the consequence, repeated all her 
guilt. Alonzo was overwhelmed with all the 
violent passions at one instant, and uttered 
the broken voices and motions of each of them 
for a moment, till at last he recollected him- 
self enough to end his agony of love, anger, 
disdain, revenge, and remorse, by murdering 
the maid, the Moor, and himself. 

No. 38.] Friday, April 24, 1713. 

— Prodire terms si non datur nltr&. 

Hor. Lib. 1. Ep. 
Thus far at least, though here we stop. 


I have lately given a precaution concerning 
the difficulty in arriving at what ought to be 
esteemed a ' fine gentleman.' That charactet 
has been long wholly engrossed by well-drest 



[No. 33. 

beau, and men of sense have given up all 
pretence to it. The highest any of them con- 
tend for, is the character of a ' pretty gentle- 
man ;' for here the dress may be more careless, 
and some wit is thought necessary ; whereas a 
fine gentleman is not obliged to converse fur- 
ther than the offering his snuffbox round the 
room. However, the pretty gentleman must 
have his airs : and though they are not so pom- 
pous as those of the other, yet they are so af- 
fected, that few who have understanding can 
oriug themselves to be proficients this way, 
though ever so useful towards being well re- 
ceived ; but if they fail here, they succeed with 
some difficulty in being allowed to have ' much 
of the gentleman' in them. To obtain this 
epithet, a man of sense must arrive at a certain 
desire to appear more than is natural to him ; 
but as the world goes, it is fit he should be 
encouraged in this attempt, since nothing can 
mend the general taste, but setting the true 
character in as public a view as the false. This, 
indeed, can never be done to the purpose, 
while the majority is so great on the wrong 
side ; one of a hundred will have the shout 
against him ; but if people of wit would be as 
zealous to assist old Ironside, as he is to pro- 
mote them and their interest, a little time 
would give these things a new turn. However, 
I will not despair but I shall be able to sum- 
mon all the good sense in the nation to my 
assistance, in my ambition to produce a new 
race of mankind, to take the places of such as 
have hitherto pretended to engross the fashion. 
The uuiversity scholar shall be called upon to 
learn his exercise, and frequent mixt company ; 
the military, and the travelled man, to read 
the best authors ; the country gentleman, to 
divide his time, so as, together with the care 
of his estate, to make an equal progress in 
learning and breeding ; and when the several 
candidates think themselves prepared, I shall 
appoint under officers to examine their quali- 
fications, and, as I am satisfied with their re- 
port, give out my passports recommending 
them to all companies as ' the Guardian's fine 
gentlemen.' If my recommendations appear 
just, I will not doubt but some of the present 
line gentlemen will see the necessity of retire- 
ment, till they can come abroad with appro- 
bation. I have indeed already given out orders 
in this behalf, and have directed searchers to 
at i end at the inns where the Oxford and Cam- 
nridge coaches stand, and commanded them to 
Dfing any young fellow, of any hopes in the 
world, directly to my lodgings as soon as he 
ands, for I will take him though I know I can 
Only make him * much of a gentleman :' for, 
When I have gone thus far, one would think it 
should be easy to make him a' gentleman-like 
man.' As the world now goes, we have no 
adequate idea of what is meant by ' gentle- 
manly,' 'gentleman- like,' or' much of a gentle- 

man ;' you cannot be cheated at play, but it 
is certainly done by ' a very gentleman- like 
man ;' you cannot be deceived in your affairs, 
but it was done in some ' gentlemanly manner ; 
you cannot be wronged in your bed, but all the 
world will say of him that did the injury, it 
must be allowed ' he is very much of a gentle- 
man.' Here is a very pleasant fellow, a cor- 
respondent of mine, that puts in for that ap- 
pellation even to highwaymen. I must confess 
the gentlemen he personates is very apparently 
such, though I did not look upon that sort of 
fellow in that light, till he favoured me with 
his letter, which is as follows : 

* I have been upon the highway these six 
years, in the Park, at the Play, at Bath, Tun- 
bridge, Epsom, and at every other place where 
I could have any prospect of stealing a fortune; 
but have met with no success, being disap- 
pointed either by some of your damned Iron- 
side race, or by old cursed curs, who put more 
bolts on their doors and bars in their windows 
than are in Newgate. All that see me own 
I am ' a gentleman-like man ;' and, whatever 
rascally things the grave folks say I am guilty 
of, they themselves acknowledge I am a ' gen- 
tlemanly kind of man,' and in every respect 
accomplished for running away with a lady. 
I have been bred up to no business, am illite- 
rate, have spent the small fortune I had in 
purchasing favours from the fair sex. The 
bounty of their purses I have received, as well 
as the endearments of their persons, but I have 
gratefully disposed of it among themselves, for 
I always was a keeper when I was kept. 1 am 
fearless in my behaviour, and never fail of put- 
ting your bookish sort of fellows, your men of 
merit, forsooth, out of countenance. I triumph 
when I see a modest young woman blush at an 
assembly, or a virgin betrayed into tears at a 
well-wrought scene in a tragedy. 1 have long 
forgot shame, for it proceeds from a conscious- 
ness of some defect; and 1 am, as 1 told yt-u, 
' a gentlemanly man.' 1 never knew any but 
you musty philosophers applaud blushes, and 
you yourselves will allow that they are caused 
either by some real imperfection, or the ap- 
prehension of defect where there is not any; 
but for my part I hate mistakes, and shall not 
suspect myself wrongfully. Such as I am, if 
you approve of my person, estate and charac- 
ter, I desire you would admit me as a suitor 
to one of the Lizards, and beg your speedy 
answer to this ; for it is the last time my black 
coat will hear scouring, or my long wig buck- 
ling. I am, Sir, the fair ladies', 

* and your humble servant, 


Those on the highway, who make a stand 
with a pistol at your breast (compelled perhaps 

No. 39.] 



by necessity, misfortune, or driven out of an 
Honest way of life, to answer the wants of a 
craving family,) are much more excusable than 
those of their fraternity, who join the conver- 
sations of gentlemen, and get into a share of 
their fortunes without one good art about them. 
What a crowd of these gentleman-like men 
are about this town ? For from an unjust mo- 
desty, and incapacity for common life, the 
ordinary failings of men of letters and industry 
in our nation, it happens that impudence sup- 
presses all virtue, and assumes the reward and 
esteem which are due to it. Hence it is that 
worthless rogues have the smiles of the fair, 
and the favours of the great : to be well dressed 
and in health, and very impudent, in this licen- 
tious undistinguishing age, is enough to con- 
stitute a person ' very much of a gentleman ;' 
and to this pass are we come, by the prosti- 
tution of wit in the cause of vice, which has 
made the most unreasonable and unnatural 
things prevail against all the suggestions of 
common sense. Nobody denies that we live in 
a Christiau country, and yet he who should 
decline, upon respective opportunities, to com- 
mit adultery or murder, would be thought 
* very little of a gentleman." 

N. S9.~] 

Saturday, April 25, 1715. 

Ilor. Ars Poet. ver. 7. 

^gr'i sorania. 

A sick man's dreams. 

My correspondent who has acquired the 
faculty of entering into other men's thoughts, 
having, in pursuance to a former letter, sent 
me an account of certain useful discoveries he 
has made by the help of that invention, I shall 
communicate the same to the public in this 


' On the eleventh day of October, in the 
year 1712, having left my body locked up safe 
in my study, I repaired to the Grecian coffee- 
house, where entering into the pineal gland of 
a certain eminent free-thinker, I made directly 
to the highest part of it, which is the seat of 
the understanding, expecting to find there a 
comprehensive Knowledge of all things, human 
and divine ; but to my no small astonishment, 
I found the place narrower than ordinary, in- 
somuch that there was not any room for a 
miracle, prophecy, or separate spirit. 

* This obliged me to descend a story lower, 
into the imagination, which I found larger, 
indeed, but cold and comfortless. I discovered 
Prejudice, in the figure of a woman, standing 
in a corner, with her eyes close shut, and her 
fore-fingers stuck in her ears ; many words in 
a confused order, but spoken with great em- 
phasis, issued from her mouth. These, being 
condensed by the coldness of the place, formed 

a sort of mist, through which methought I 
saw a great castle with a fortification cast 
round it, and a tower adjoining to it,, that 
through the windows appeared to be filled with 
racks and halters. Beneath the castle I could 
discern vast dungeons, and all about it lay 
scattered the bones of men. It seemed to be 
garrisoned by certain men in black, of a gigan- 
tic size, and most terrible forms. But as [ 
drew near, the terror of the appearance va- 
nished ; and the castle I found to be only a 
church, whose steeple with its clock and bell- 
ropes was mistaken for a tower filled with racks 
and halters. The terrible giants in black 
shrunk into a few innocent clergymen. The 
dungeons were turned into vaults designed only 
for the habitation of the dead ; and the forti- 
fications proved to be a church-yard, with some 
scattered bones in it, and a plain stone wall 
round it> 1 

* I had not been long here before my curio- 
sity was raised by a loud noise that I heard in 
the inferior region. Descending thither I 
found a mob of the passions assembled in a 
riotous manner. Their tumultuary proceed- 
ings soon convinced me, that they affected a 
democracy. After much noise and wrangle, 
they at length all hearkened to Vanity, who 
proposed the raising of a great army of notions, 
which she offered to lead against those dread- 
ful phantoms in the imagination that had oc- 
casioned all this uproar. 

' Away posted Vanity, and I after her, to the 
storehouse of ideas ; where I beheld a great 
number of lifeless notions confusedly thrown 
together, but upon the approach of Vanity they 
began to crawl. Here were to be seen, among 
other odd things, sleeping deities, corporeal 
spirits, and worlds formed by chance ; with an 
endless variety of heathen notions, the most 
irregular and grotesque imaginable ; and with 
these were jumbled several of Christian extrac- 
tion ; but such was the dress and light they 
were put in, and their features were so dis- 
torted, that they looked little better than 
heathens. There was likewise assembled no 
small number of phantoms in strange habits, 
who proved to be idolatrous priests of different 
nations. Vanity gave the word, and straitway 
the Talopoins, Faquirs, Bramins, and Bonzes, 
drew up in a body. The right wing consisted 
of ancient heathen notions, and the left, of 
Christians naturalized. All these together, 
for numbers, composed a very formidable army ; 
but the precipitation of Vanity was so great, 
and such was their own inbred aversion to the 
tyranny of rules and discipline, that they seemed 
rather a confused rabble than a regular army 
I could, nevertheless, observe, that they al 
agreed in a squinting look, or cast of their eye 
towards a certain person in a mask, who was 
placed in the centre, and whom, by sure signs 
and tokens, I discovered to be Atheism. 



[No. S3 

• \ mitj bad bo tooner ted per forces into 
ition, but she resolved upon storm- 
ing the castle^ and giving noquarter. They 
assault with a loud outcry and great 
ision. I, for my part, made the best of 
inv u.iv, ami re-entered my own lodging:. Some 
time after, inquiring at a bookseller's for a 
Discourse on Free-thinking, which had made 
some noise, I met with the representatives of 
all those notions drawn up in the same confused 
order upon paper. Sage Nestor, , 
* I am, 
' Your most obedient humble servant, 1 


' N. B. I went round the table, but could not 
find a wit, or mathematician among them.' 

I imagine the account here given may be 
useful in directing to the proper cure of a free- 
thinker. In the first place, it is plain his 
understanding wants to be opened and en- 
larged, and he should be taught the way to 
order and methodise his ideas ; to which end 
the study of the mathematics may be useful. 
I am farther of opinion, that as his imagination 
is filled with amusements arising from preju- 
dice, and the obscure or false lights in which 
he sees things, it will be necessary to bring 
him into good company, and now and then 
carry him to church ; by which means he may 
in time come to a right sense of religion, and 
wear off the ill impressions he has received. 
Lastly, I advise whoever undertakes the re- 
formation of a modern freethinker, that above 
all things he be careful to subdue his vanity; 
that being the principal motive which prompts 
a little genius to distinguish itself by singu- 
larities that are hurtful to mankind. 

Or, if the passion of vanity, as it is for the 
most part very strong in your free-thinkers, 
cannot be subdued, let it be Won over to the 
interest of religion, by giving them to under- 
stand that the greatest genii of the age have 
a respect for things sacred; that their rhap- 
sodies find no admirers, and that the name 
Free-tbtnker has, like Tyrant of old, degene- 
rated from its original signification, and is now 
supposed to denote something contrary to wit 
and reason. In line, let them know that what- 
ever temptations a few men of parts might 
formerly have had, from the novelty of the 
thing, to oppose the received opinions of Chris- 
tians, yet that now the humour is worn out, 
and blasphemy and irreligion are distinctions 
vrbicfa have long since descended down to 
lackeys and drawers. 

Hut it must be my business to prevent all 
pretenders in this kind from hurting the igno- 
rant and unwary. In order to this, I coiinuu- 
nicated an intelligence which 1 received of a 

gentleman's appearing very sorry that he was vvell during a late lit of sickness, contrary 
t I bis own doctrine] which obliged him to be 

merry upon that occasion, except he was sure 
of recovering. Upon this advice to the world, 
the following advertisement got a place in the 
post-boy : 

* Whereas in the paper called the Guardian 
of Saturday, the eleventh of April, instant, a 
corollary reflection was made on Monsieur 

I) , a member of the royal academy 

of sciences in Paris, author of a book lately 
published, entitled, 

A Philological Essay, or Reflections on the 
death of Free-thinkers, with the characters of 
the most eminent persons of both sexes, an- 
cient and modern, that died pleasantly and 
unconcerned, &c. Sold by J. Baker in Pater- 
noster-row : Suggesting, as if that gentleman, 
now in London," was very much out of humour, 
in a late fit of sickness, till he was in a fair 
way of recovery :" This is to assure the public, 
that the said gentleman never expressed the 
least concern at the approach of death, but 
expected the fatal minute with a most heroical 
and philosophical resignation ; of which a copy 
of verses he writ, in the serene intervals of his 
distemper, is an invincible proof.' 

All that I contend for, is, that this gentle 
man was out of humour when he was sick ; and 
the advertiser, to confute me, says, that ' in 
the serene intervals of his distemper,' that is, 
when he was not sick, he writ verses. I shall 
not retract my advertisement till I see those 
verses, and I will choose what to believe then, 
except they are underwritten by his nurse, nor 
then neither, except she is a house-keeper. 
I must tie this gentleman close to the argu- 
ment ; for if he had not actually his fit upon 
him, there is nothing courageous in the thing, 
nor does it make for his purpose, nor are they 
heroic verses. 

The point of being merry at the hour of 
death is a matter that ought to be settled by 
divines ; but the publisher of the Philological 
Essay produces his chief authorities from Lu- 
cretius, the earl of Rochester, and Mr. John 
Dryden, who were gentlemen that did not 
think themselves obliged to prove all they 
said, or else proved their assertions by saying or 
swearing they were all fools that believed to 
the contrary. If it be absolutely necessary 
that a man should be facetious at his death, it 
would be very well if these gentlemen, Mon- 
sieur D and Mr. B would repent 

betimes, and not trust to a death- bed inge- 
nuity ; by what has appeared hitherto they 
have only raised our longing to see their pos- 
thnmus works. 

The author of Poeta Rustkantis literatum 
Otium is but a mere phraseologist, the philo- 
logical publisher is but a translator: but I ex- 
pected better usage from Mr. Abel Roper, who 
is an original. 

No. 40.] 



No. 40.] Monday, April 27, 1713. 

Compulerantque greges Cory don etThyisis in unum : 
Ex illo Corydon, Corydon est tempore nobis. 

Hrg. Ed. vii. 2. 
Tlieir sheep and goats together graz'd the plaiBS— 
Since when ? 'tis Cor> don among the swains, 
Young Corydon without a rival r.igns. Dry den. 

I designed to have troubled the reader with 
no farther discourses of pastorals ; but being 
informed that I am taxed of partiality in not 
mentioning an author, whose eclogues are pub- 
Jished in the same volume with Mr. Philips's, 
J shall employ this paper in observations upon 
nun, written in the free spirit of criticism, and 
without apprehension of offending the gentle- 
man, whose character it is, that he takes the 
greatest care of his works before they are pub- 
lished, and has the least concern for them af- 

I have laid it down as the first rule of pas- 
toral, that its idea should be taken from the 
manners of the golden age, and the moral 
formed upon the representation of innocence ; 
it is therefore plain that any deviations from 
that design degrade a poem from being true 
pastoral. In this view it will appear that Virgil 
can only have two of his eclogues allowed to 
be such. His first and ninth must be rejected, 
because they describe the ravages of armies, 
and oppressions of the innocent; -Corydon's 
criminal passion for Alexis throws out the se- 
eond ; the calumny and railing in the third 
are not proper to that state of concord ; the 
eighth represents unlawful ways of procuring 
love by enchantments, and introduces a shep- 
herd whom an inviting precipice tempts to self- 
murder. As to the fourth, sixth and tenth, 
they are given up by Heinsius,Salmasius, Rapin, 
and the critics in general.* They likewise ob- 
serve that but eleven of all the Idyllia of Theo- 
critus are to be admitted as pastorals ; and even 
out of that number the greater part will be ex- 
cluded, for one or other of the reasons above- 
mentioned. So that when I remarked in a former 
paper, that Virgil's eclogues, taken altogether, 
are rather select poems than pastorals, I might 
have said the same thing, with no less truth, 
of Theocritus. The reason of this I take to be 
yet unobserved by the critics, viz. ' They never 
meant them all for pastorals ;' which it is plain 
Philips hath done, and in that particular ex- 
celled both Theocritus and Virgil. 

As simplicity is the distinguishing character- 
istic of pastoral, Virgil has been thought guilty 
of too courtly a style : his language is perfectly 
pure, and he often forgets he is among peasants. 
I have frequently wondered that since he was 
so conversant in the writings of Ennius, he had 
not imitated the rusticity of the Doric, as well, 
Dy the help of the old obsolete Roman language, 
as Philips hath by the antiquated English. For 

* Sec Rapia de Carm. Past, pars 3. 

example, might he not have said ' quoi instead 
of ' cut-,' ' quoijum' for * cujnm ;' ' volt' for 
' vult,' &c. as well as our modem hath ' wel- 
laday' for' alas,' ' whilome' for ' of old,' ''make 
mock' for ' deride,' and * witless younglings' 
for ' simple lambs,' &c. by which means he had 
attained as much of the air of Theocritus, as 
Philips hath of Spenser ?* 

Mr. Pope hath fallen into the same error 
with Virgil. His clowns do not converse in all 
the simplicity proper to the country. His 
names are borrowed from Theocritus and Vir- 
gil, which are improper to the scene of his pas- 
torals. He introduces Daphnis, Alexis, and 
Thyrsis on British plains, as Virgil had done 
before him on the Mantuan : whereas Philips, 
who hath the strictest regard to propriety, 
makes choice of names peculiar to the country, 
and more agreeable to a reader of delicacy ; 
such as Hobbinol, Lobbin, Cuddy, and Colin 

So easy as pastoral writing may seem (in 
the simplicity we have described it), yet it re- 
quires great reading, both of the ancients and 
moderns, to be a master of it. Philips hath 
given us manifest proofs of his knowledge of 
books ; it must be confessed his competitor 
hath imitated some single thoughts of the an- 
cients well enough, if we consider he had not 
the happiness of a university education ; but 
he hath dispersed them here and there, with- 
out that order and method which Mr. Philips 
observes, whose whole third pastoral is an in- 
stance how well he hath studied the fifth of 
Virgil, and how judiciously reduced Virgil's 
thoughts to the standard of pastoral ; as his 
contention of Colin Clout and the Nightingale, 
shows with what exactness he hath imitated 

When I remarked it as a principal fault to 
introduce fruits and flowers of a foreign growth, 
in descriptions where the scene lies in our 
country, I did not design that observation 
should extend also to animals, or the sensitive 
life; for Philips hath with great judgment 
described wolves in England, in his first pas- 
toral. Nor would I have a poet slavishly con- 
fine himself (as Mr. Pope hath done) to one 
particular season of the year, one certain time 
of the day, and one unbroken scene in each 
eclogue. It is plain Spenser neglected this 
pedantry, who, in his pastoral of November, 
mentions the mournful song of the nightingale. 
' Sad Philomel her son? in tears doth steep." 

And Mr. Philips, by a poetical creation, hath 
raised up finer beds of flowers than the most 
industrious gardener ; his roses, lilies and daf- 
fodils, blow in the same season. 

But the better to discover the merits of our 
two contemporary pastoral writers, I shall en- 
deavour to draw a parallel of them, by setting 
several of their particular thoughts in the same 



[No. 40 

light, whereby it will be obvious how much 

Philips bath the advantage. With what sim- 
plicity lie introduces two shepherds singing al- 

Come, Rosalind, O come, for without thee pleasure cm the country have for me. 
Come, Rosalind, O come: My brinded kine, 
Mv snowy sheep, my farm, and all, is thine. 
tome, Kosalind, O come; here shady bowers, 
||,i. are cool fountains, and here springing flow'rs. 
Come, Rosalind ; here ever let us stay, 
And sweetly waste our live long time away. 

Dur other pastoral writer, in expressing the 
same thought, deviates into downright poetry. 

Stteph. In spring the fields, in autumn hills I love, 
At mom the plains, at noon the shady grove, 
But Delia always ; fore'd from Delia's sight, 
Nor plains at morn, nor groves at noon delight. 

Daph. Sylvia's like autumn ripe, yet mild as May, 

More bright than noon, yet fresh as early day ; 
Ev'n spring displeases when she shines not here : 
But, blest with her , 'tis spring throughout the year. 

In the first of these authors, two shepherds 
thus innocently describe the behaviour of their 

llobb. As Marian bath'd, by chanca I passed by ; 

She blush'd, and at me cast a side-long eye : 
Then swift beneath the crystal wave she try'd 
Her beautions form, but all in vain to hide. 

Lanq. As I to cool me bath'd one sultry day, 
Fond Lydia lurking in the sedges lay ; 
The wanton langh'd, and seem'd in haste to fly ; 
Yet often stopp'd, and often turn'd her eye. 

The other modern (who it must be confessed 
fiath a knack of versifying) hath it as follows : 

Hreph. Me gentle Delia beckons from the plain. 

Then, hid in shades, eludes her eager swain ; 
Rut feigns a laugh, to see me search around, 
And by that laugh the willing fair is found. 

Daph. The sprightly Sylvia trips along the green ; 
Stic runs, but hopes she does not rim unseen ; 
"While a kind glance at her pursuer Mies, 
How much at variance are her feet and eyes! 

There is nothing the writers of this kind of 
poetry are fonder of, than descriptions of pas- 
toral presents. Philips says thus of a sheep- 
hook : 

Of seasonal elm ; where studs of brass appear, 
To speak the giver's name, the month, and year, 
J he hook of polbh'd steel, the handle turn'd, 
And lichly by the graver's skill adoru'd.' 

The other of a bowl embossed with figures : 

-where wanton ivy twines ; 

And swi lling clusters bend the curling vines ; 

Four figures rising from the work appear, 

The various seasons of the rolling year; 

And what is that which hinds the radiant sky, 

Where twelve bright signs In beauteous order lie? 

The simplicity of the swain in this place, 
who forget* the name of the Zodiac, is no ill imi- 
tation of Virgil; but how much more plainly 
and unaffectedly would Philips have dressed 
tliis thought in his Doric? 

And wh.,t that bight, which Rirds the Welkin sheen, 

W&era twelve gaj iigpi i„ mM | array are sm) '{ 

If the reader would indulge his curiosity any 
farther in the comparison of particulars, he 

may read the first pastoral of Philips with the 
second of his contemporary, and the fourth and 
sixth of the former, with the fourth and first 
of the latter ; where several parallel places will 
occur to every oi>e. 

Having now shown some parts, in which these 
two writers may be compared, it is a justice I 
owe to Mr. Philips, to discover those in which 
no man can compare with him. First that 
beautiful rusticity, of which I shall only produce 
two instances, out of a hundred not yet quoted : 

O woful day ! O day of woe, quoth he. 
And woful 1, who live the day to see 1 

That simplicity of diction, the melancholy 
flowing of the numbers, the solemnity of the 
sound, and the easy turn of the words, in this 
dirge (to make use of our author's expression) 
are extremely elegant. 

In another of his pastorals a shepherd utters 
a dirge not much inferior to the former, in the 
following lines : 

Ah me the while .' an me, the luckless day I 
Ah luckless lad, the rather might I say ; 
Ah silly I / more silly than my sheep, 
Which on the flow'ry plains I once did keep. 

How he still charms the ear with these artful 
repetitions of the epithets ; and how significant 
is the last verse ! I defy the most common 
reader to repeat them without feeling some 
motions of compassion. In the next place I 
shall rank his proverbs, in which I formerly 
observed he excels. For example, 

A rolling stone is ever bare of moss ; 

And, to their cost, green years old proveibs cross. 

He that late lies down, as late will rise, 

And, sluggard like, till noon-day snoring lies, 
Against ill luck all cunning foresight fails; 
Whether we sleep or wake it nought avails. 
Nor fear, from upright sentence, wrong. 

Lastly, his elegant dialect, which alone might 
prove him the eldest born of Spenser, and our 
only true Arcadian ; I should think it proper 
for the several writers of pastoral, to confine 
themselves to their several counties : Spenser 
seems to have been of this opinion ; for he hath 
laid the scene of one of his pastorals in Wales, 
where, with all the simplicity natural to that 
part of our island, one shepherd bids the other 
good-morrow in an unusual and elegant man- 

Diggon Davcy, I bid hur God-day ; 
Or Diggon bur is, or 1 mis-say. 

Diggon answers, 

Hur was hur while it was day light: 

But now hur is a most wretched wight, &c. 

But the most beautiful example of this kind 
that I ever met with, is a very valuable piece 
which I chanced to find among some old ma- 
nuscripts, entitled, A Pastoral Ballad ; which 
I think, for its nature and simplicity, may 
(notwithstandin Uie modesty of the title) be 

No. 41. J 



allowed a perfect pastoral. It Is composed in 
the Somersetshire dialect, and the names such 
as are proper to the country people. It may be 
observed, as a farther beauty of this pastoral, 
the words Nymph, Dryad, Naiad, Faun, Cupid, 
or Satyr, are not once mentioned through the 
whole. I shall make no apology for inserting 
some few lines of this excellent piece. Cicily 
breaks thus into the subject, as she is going a 

Cteily, Rager go vetch tha kee,* or else tha zun 
Will quite be g», bevore c'have half a don. 

Roger. Thou should'st not ax ma tweece, but I've a be 
To dreave our bull to bull tha parson's kee. 

It is to be observed, that this whole dialogue 
is formed upon the passion of jealousy; and 
his mentioning the parson's kine naturally re- 
vives the jealousy of the shepherdess Cicily, 
which she expresses as follows : 
Cicily. Ah Rager, Rager, chez was zore avraid 

When in yond vield you kiss'd tha parson's maid : 

Is this the love that once to me you zed [.bread ? 

When from tha wake thou brought'st me ginger- 
Rogcr. Cicily thou charg'st me false— I'll zwear to thee, 

Tha parson's maid is still a maid for me. 

In which answer of his are expressed at once 
that ' spirit of religion/ and that * innocence 
of the golden age,' so necessary to be observed 
by all writers of pastoral. 

At the conclusion of this piece, the author 
reconciles the lovers, and ends the eclogue the 
most simply in the world: 

So Rager parted vor to vetch tha kee, 
And vor her bucket iu went Cicily. 

I am loth to show my fondness for antiquity so 
far as to prefer this ancient British author to 
our present English writers of pastoral ; but I 
cannot avoid making this obvious remark, that 
both Spenser and Philips have hit into the same 
road with this old west country bard of ours. 

After all that hath been said I hope none 
can think it any injustice to Mr. Pope, that I 
forbore to mention him as a pastoral writer ; 
since upon the whole he is of the same class 
with Moschus and Bion, whom we have ex- 
cluded that rank ; and of whose eclogues, as 
well as some of Virgil's, it may be said, that 
according to the description we have given of 
this sort of poetry, they are by no means pas- 
torals, but * something better.' 

No. 41.] Tuesday, April 28, 1713. 

E'en churches are no sanctuaries now. 

Epilogue to Cato. 

The following letter has so much truth and 
reason in it, that I believe every man of sense 
and honour in England, will have a just indig- 
nation against the person who could commit 
so great a violence, as that of which my cor- 
respondent complains. 

* That is, kine or cows. 

* To the Autluor of the Guardian. 
' I claim a place in your paper for what I 
now write to you, from the declaration which 
you made at your first appearance, and the very 
title you assume to yourself. 

* If the circumstance which I am going to 
mention is over- looked by one who calls him- 
self Guardian, I am sure honour and integrity, 
innocence and virtue, are not the objects of 
his care. — The Examiner ends his discourse of 
Friday, the twenty-fourth instant, with these 

" No sooner was D — * among the whigs, and 
confirmed past retrieving, but lady Char — te-f* 
is taken knotting in St. James's chapel during 
divine service, in the immediate presence both 
of God and her majesty, who were affronted 
together, that the family might appear to be 
entirely come over. I spare the beauty for 
the sake of her birth ; but certainly there was 
no occasion for so public a proof, that her 
fingers are more dexterous in tying a knot, 
than her father's brains in perplexing the go- 

* It is apparent that the person here intended 
is by her birth a lady, and daughter of an earl 
of Great Britain; and the treatment this au- 
thor is pleased to give her, he makes no scruple 
to own she is exposed to by being his daughter. 
Since he has assumed a licence to talk of this 
nobleman in print to his disadvantage, I hope 
his lordship will pardon me, that out of the 
interest which I, and all true Englishmen, have 
in his character, I take the liberty to defend 

* I am willing on this occasion, to allpw the 
claim and pretension to merit to be such, as 
the same author describes in his preceding 

" By active merit (says the Examiner of the 
twenty-first) I understand, not only the power 
and ability to serve, but the actual exercise of 
any one or more virtues, for promoting the 
good of one's country, and a long and steady 
course of real endeavours to appear useful in 
a government ; or where a person eminently 
qualified for public affairs, distinguishes him- 
self in some critical juncture, and at the ex- 
pense of his ease and fortune, or with the 
hazard of his person, exposes himself to the 
malice of a designing faction, by thwarting 
their wicked purposes, and contributing to the 
safety, repose, and welfare of a people." 

Let us examine the conduct of this noble 
earl by this description. Upon the late glo- 
rious revolution, when it was in debate in what 
manner the people of England should express 
their gratitude to their deliverer, this lord, 

• Earl of Nottingham. 

t His daughter, lady Charlotte Finch, afterwards duchess 
of Somerset 



r \ T o. 41. 

from tlu* utmost tenderness and loyalty to his 
unhappy prince,and apprehensive of the danger 

• a change, voted against king Wil- 
to the throne. However, his 
follow ing w ri ices sufficiently testified the truth 
vf that bis memorable expression, " Though 
be could not make a king, he could obey him." 
The whole course and tenour of his life ever 
since has been visibly animated, by a steady 
and constant zeal for the monarchy and epis- 
copacy of these realms. He has been ever 
reviled by all who are cold to the interests 
of our established religion, or dissenters from 
it, as a favourer of persecution, and a bigot to 
the church, against the civil rights of his fel- 
low-subjects. Thus it stood with him at the 
trial of doctor Sacheverell, when this noble earl 
had a very great share in obtaining the gentle 
sentence which the house of lords pronounced 
o.) that occasion. But, indeed, I have not heard 
that any of his lordship's dependents joined 
saint Harry in the pilgrimage which " that 
meek man" took afterwards round England, 
followed by drum, trumpet, and acclamations, 
to " visit the churches." — Civil prudence made 
it, perhaps, necessary to throw the public af- 
fairs into such hands as had no pretensions to 
popularity in either party, but from the distri- 
bution of the queen's favours. 

' During such, and other later transactions 
('which are too fresh to ne"ed being recounted) 
the earl of Nottingham has had the misfortune 
to differ with the lords who have the honour 
to be employed in the administration ; but 
even among these incidents he has highly dis- 
tinguished himself in procuring an act of par- 
liament, to prevent that those who dissent from 
the church should serve in the state. 

4 1 hope these are great and critiwal junctures, 
wherein this gentleman has shown himself a 
patriot and lover of the church in as eminent 
manner, as any other of his fellow-subjects. 

He has at all times, and in all seasons, 
shown the same steady abhorrence to all inno- 
vations." But it is from this behaviour, that 
be bas deserved so ill of the Examiner, as to 
be termed a " late convert'' to those whom he 
calls factious, and introduced in bis. profane 
dialogue of April the sixth, with a servant and 
B mad woman. I think I have, according to 

t be Examiner's own descripl ion of merit, shown 

bow little this nobleman deserves such treat- 
ment. 1 shall now appeal tO all the world, to 

consider whether the outrage committed against 

the young lady had not been cruel and insuf- 
ferable, toward! the daughter of the highest 


The Utmost malice and invention could go 
no Farther than to forge a story of her having 

inadvertently done an indifferent action in a 
sacred place, or what temper can this man 
i»e made, thai could have no sense of the pangs 

be must give a young lady to be barely men- 

tioned in a public paper, much more t.j be 
named in a libellous manner, as having offended 
God and man. 

* But the wretch, as dull as he is wicked, 
felt it strike on his imagination, that knotting 
and perplexing would make a quaint sting at 
the end of his paper, and had no compunction, 
though he introduced his witticism at the ex- 
pense of a young lady's quiet, and (as far as in 
him lies) her honour. Does he thus finish his 
discourse of religion ? This is indeed t4 to lay 
at us and make every blow fell to the ground." 

1 There is no party concerned in this circum- 
stance; but every man that hopes for a vir- 
tuous woman to his wife, that would defend 
his child, or protect his mistress, ought to re- 
ceive this insolence as done to himeelf. " In 
the immediate presence of God and her majesty, 
that the family might appear to be entirely 
come over," says the fawning miscreant. — It is 
very visible which of those powers (that he has 
put together) he is the more fearful of offend- 
ing. But he mistakes his way in making his 
court to a pious sovereign, by naming her with 
the Deity, in order to find protection for in- 
sulting a virtuous woman, who comes to call 
upon him in the royal chapel. 

' If life be fas it ought to be with people of 
their character, whom the Examiner attacks) 
less valuable and dear than honour and repu- 
tation, in that proportion is the Examiner worse 
than an assassin, we have stood by and tamely 
heard him aggravate the disgraces of the brave 
and the unfortunate, we have seen him double 
the anguish of the unhappy man, we have seen 
him trample on the ashes of the dead ; but all 
this has concerned greater life, and could touch 
only public characters, they did but remotely 
affect our private and domestic interests ; but 
when due regard is not had to the honour of 
women, all human society is assaulted. The 
highest person in the world is of that sex, and 
has the utmost sensibility of an outrage com- 
mitted against it. She, who was the best wife 
that ever prince was blessed with, will, though 
she sits on a throne, jealously regard the honour 
of a young lady who has not entered into that 

* Lady Char — te's quality will make it im- 
possible that this cruel usage can escape her 
majesty's notice ; and it is the business of every 
honest man to trace the offender, and expose 
him to the indignation of his sovereign.' 

No. i .'.] Wednesday, April <29, 1713. 

Non mlSHira cutem, Did plenR cruoria hirndo. 

llor. Art i >(l( »• vcr. alt. 

Sticking like leeches till they burst with blood. 


Tom Lizard told us a stoy the other day, 
of some persons which our family know very 

No. 42.] 



well, with so much humour and life, that it 
caused a great deal of mirth at the tea-table. 
His brother Will, the Templar, was highly de- 
lighted with it, and the next day being with 
some of his inns-of-eourt acquaintance, resolved 
(whether out of the henevolence, or the pride 
of his heart, I will not determine) to entertain 
them with what he called ' a pleasant humour 
enough.' I was in great pain for him when I 
heard him begin, and was not at all surprised 
to find the company very little moved by it. 
Will blushed, looked round the room, and with 
a forced laugh, ' Faith, gentlemen,' said he, ' I 
do not know what makes you look so grave; 
it was an admirable story when 1 heard it.' 

When I came home 1 fell into a profound 
contemplation upon story-telling, and as 1 have 
nothing so much at heart as the good of my 
country, I resolved to lay down some precau- 
tions upon this subject. 

I have often thought that a story-teller is 
born, as well as a poet. It is, I think, certain, 
that some men have such a peculiar cast of 
mind, that they see things in another light 
than men of grave dispositions. Men of a 
lively imagination, and a mirthful temper, will 
represent things to their hearers in the same 
manner as they themselves were affected with 
them ; and wiiereas serious spirits might per- 
haps have been disgusted at the sight of some 
odd occurrences in life ; yet the very same oc- 
currences shall please them in a well-told story, 
where the disagreeable parts of the images are 
concealed, and those only which are pleasing 
exhibited to the fancy. Story-telling is there- 
fore not an art,, but what we call ' a knack ;' 
it doth not so much subsist upon wit as upon 
humour; and 1 will add, that it is not perfect 
without proper gesticulations of the body, 
which naturally attend such merry emotions 
of the mind. I know very well, that a certain 
gravity of countenance sets some stories off to 
advantage, where the hearer is to be surprised 
in the end ; but this is by no means a general 
rule ; for it is frequently convenient to aid and 
assist by cheerful looks, and whimsical agita- 
tions. I will go yet further, and affirm that the 
success of a story very often depends upon the 
make of the body, and formation of the fea- 
tures, of him who relates it. I have been of 
this opinion ever since I criticised upon the 
chin of Dick Dewlap. I very often had the 
weakness to repine at the prosperity of his 
conceits, which made him pass for a wit with 
the widow at the coffee-house, and the ordinary 
mechanics that frequent it ; nor could I myself 
forbear laughing at them most heartily, though 
upon examination I thought most of them very 
flat and insipid. I found after some time, that 
the merit of his wit was founded upon the 
shaking of a fat paunch, and the tossing up of a 
pair of rosy joles. Poor Dick had a fit of sick- 
ness,, which robbed him of his fat and his fame 

at once; and it was full three months before 
he regained his reputation, which rose in pro- 
portion to his floridity. He is now very jolly 
and ingenious, and hath a good constitution 
for wit. 

Those who are thus adorned with the gifts 
of nature, are apt to show their parts with too 
much ostentation : I would therefore advise all 
the professors of this art never to tell stories 
but as they seem to grow out of the subject 
matter of the conversation, or as they serve to 
illustrate or enliven it. Stories that are very 
common are generally irksome ; but may be 
aptly introduced, provided they be only hinted 
at, and mentioned by way of allusion. Those 
that are altogether new should never be 
ushered in without a short and pertinent cha- 
racter of the chief persons concerned ; because, 
by that means, you make the company ac- 
quainted with them; and it is a certain rule, 
that slight and trivial accounts of those who 
are familiar to us, administer more mirth, 
than the brighest points of wit in unknown 
characters. A little circumstance in the com- 
plexion or dress of the man you are talking of 
sets his image before the hearer, if it be chosen 
aptly for the story. Thus, I remember Tom 
Lizard, after having made his sisters merry 
with an account of a formal old man's way of 
complimenting, owned very frankly, that his 
story would not have been worth one farthing, 
if he had made the hat of him whom he repre- 
sented one inch narrower. Besides the mark- 
ing distinct characters, and selecting pertinent 
circumstances, it is likewise necessary to leave 
off in time, and end smartly. So that there is 
a kind of drama in the forming of a story, and 
the manner of conducting and pointing it, is the 
same as in an epigram. It is a miserable thing, 
after one hath raised the expectation of the 
company by humorous characters, and a pretty 
conceit, to pursue the matter too far. There 
is no retreating, and how poor it is for a story- 
teller to end his relation by saying, ' that's all !' 

As the choosing of pertinent circumstances 
is the life of a story, and that wherein humour 
principally consists; so the collectors of im- 
pertinent particulars are the very bane and 
opiates of conversation. Old men are great 
transgressors this way. Poor Ned Poppy, — 
he's gone— was a very honest man, but was so 
excessively tedious over his pipe, that he was 
not to be endured. He knew so exactly what 
they had for dinner ; when such a thing hap- 
pened ; in what ditch his bay stone-horse had 
his sprain at that time, and how his man Jehn, 
— no ! 'twas William, started a hare in the 
common field ; that he never got to the end 
of his tale. Then he was extremely particular 
in marriages and inter-marriages, and cousins 
twice or thrice removed ; and whether such a 
thing happened at the latter end of July, of 
the beginning of August. He had a marvelous 



[No. 43. 

tendency likewise to digressions; insomuch 
thai if ■ considerable person "^ mentioned in 
ln> story, I"- would straightway launch out into 
IB epbodfl of bhn ; «nd again, if in that per- 
ion's Story he had occasion to remember a third 
mau, be broke off, and gave us his history, and 
so on. He always put me in mind of what 
lir William Temple informs us of the tale-tel- 
lers in the north of Ireland, who are hired to 
tell stories of giants and inchanters to lull 
people asleep. These historians are obliged, 
by their bargain, to go on without stopping; 
so that after the patient hath, by this benefit, 
enjoyed a long nap, he is sure to find the ope- 
rator proceeding in his work. Ned procured the 
like effect in me the last time I was with him. 
As he was in the third hour of his story, and 
very thankful that his memory did not fail him, 
I fairly nodded in the elbow chair. He was much 
affronted at this, till I told him, ' Old friend, 
you have your infirmity, and I have mine.' 

But of all evils in story-telling, the humour 
of telling tales one after another, in great 
numbers, is the least supportable. Sir Harry 
Pandolf and his son gave my lady Lizard great 
offence in this particular. Sir Harry hath 
what they call a string of stories, which he 
tells over every Christmas. When our family 
visits there, we are constantly, after supper, en- 
tertained with the Glastonbury Thorn. When 
we have wondered at that a little, ' Ay, but, 
father,' saith the son, ' let us have the Spirit in 
the Wood.' After that hath been laughed at, 
' Ay, but father,' cries the booby again, * tell us 
how you served the robber.' ' Alack-a-day,' 
saith sir Harry, with a smile, and rubbing his 
forehead, ' I have almost forgot that; but 'tis 
a pleasant conceit, to be sure.' Accordingly 
he tells that and twenty more in the same in- 
dependent order, and without the least vari- 
ation, at this day, as he hath done to my 
knowledge, ever since the revolution. I must 
not forget a very odd compliment that sir Harry 
always makes my lady when he dines here. 
After dinner he strokes his belly, and says with 
a feigned concern in his countenance, ' Madam, 
1 have lost by you to-day.' ' How so, sir 
Harry?' replies my lady; ' Madam,' says he, 

I have lost an excellent stomach.' At this, 
his son and heir laughs immoderately, and 
winks upon Mrs. Annabella. This is the thirty- 
third time that sir Harry hath been thus arch, 
and 1 can bear it no longer. 

As the telling of stories is a great help and 
life to conversations I always encourage them, 
if they art- pertinent and innocent; in opposi- 
tion to those gloomy mortals, who disdain every 
thing but nutter of fact. Those grave fellows 
are my aversion, who sift every thing with the 
utmost iiieet\, and rind the malignity of a lie 
in | piece of humour, pushed a little beyond 
exact truth. I likewise have a poor opinion 
of those, who have got | trick of keeping a 

steady countenance, that cock their hats, and 
look glum when a pleasant thing is said, and 
ask, * Well ! and what then ?' Men of wit and 
parts should treat one another with benevo- 
lence : and I will lay it down as a ttsiim, that 
if you seem to have a good opinion of another 
man's wit, he will allow you to have judgment. 

No. 43.] Thursday, April 30, 1713. 

Emit ire leves indigna Tragaedia versa?, 
Ut festus matrona moveri jnssa diebus. 

Hot: Ars Poet. ver. 231. 

Tragedy sbon'ri blush as much to stoop 

To the low mimic tollies of a farce, 

As a grave matron would to dauce with girls. 


I HAD for some days observed something in 
agitation, which was carried by smiles and 
whispers between my lady Lizard and her 
daughters, with a professed declaration that 
Mr. Ironside should not be in the secret. 
I would not trespass upon the integrity of the 
Sparkler so much as to solicit her to break ber 
word even in a trifle; but I take it for an in- 
stance of her kindness to me, that as soon as 
she was at liberty, she was impatient to let 
me know it, and this morning sent me the 
following billet. 

* My brother Tom waited upon us all last 
night to Cato ; we sat in the first seats in the 
box of the eighteen-penny gallery. You must 
come hither this morning, for we shall be full 
of debates about the characters. I was for 
Marcia last night, but find that partiality was 
owing to the awe I was under in her father's 
presence ; but this morning Lucia is my woman. 
You will tell me whether I am right or no 
when I see you ; but I think it is a more diffi- 
cult virtue to forbear going into a family, 
though she was in love with the heir of it, for 
no other reason but because her happiness was 
inconsistent with the tranquillity of the whole 
house to which she should be allied. I say, 
I think it a more generous virtue in Lucia to 
conquer her love from this motive, than in 
Marcia to suspend hers in the present circum- 
stances of her father and her country : but 
pray be here to settle these matters. 
' I am, your most obliged 

* and obedient humble servant, 


I made all the haste imaginable to the family, 
where I found Tom with the play in his hand, 
and the whole company with a sublime cheer- 
fulness in their countenance, all ready to speak 
to me at once : and before I could draw my 
chair, my lady herself repeated : 

'Tis not a set of features, or complexion, 
The (incline of a skin that 1 admire; 
Iteauty soon jrows familiar lo the lover, 

No. 43. J 



Fades In his eye, and palls upon the sense. 
The virtuous Marcia towers above her sex : 
True, she is fair ; (oh, how divinely fair !) 
But still the lovely maid improves her charms 
With inward greatness, unaffected wisdom, 
And sanctity of manners.' 

I was going to speak, when Mrs. Cornelia 
etood up, and with the most gentle accent and 
sweetest tone of voice succeeded her mother: 

So the pure limpid stream, when foul with stains 
Of rushing torrents and descsnding rains, 
Works itself clear, and as it runs refines, 
Till by degrees the floating mirror shines, 
Reflects each flower that on the border grows, 
And a new heaven in its fair bosom shows. 

I thought now they would have given me 
time to draw a chair; but the Sparkler took 
hold of me, and I heard her with the utmost 
delight pursue her admiration of Lucia in the 
words of Portius : 

Athwart the terrors that thy vow 

Has planted round thee, thou appear'st more fair, 
More amiable, and risest in thy charms, 
Loveliest of women I Heaven is in thy son!, 
Beauty and virtue shine for ever round thee, 
Bright'ning each other ; thou art all divine! 

When the ladies had done speaking, I took 
the liberty to take my place ; while Tom, who. 
like a just courtier, thinks the interest of his 
prince and country the same, dwelt upon these 
lines : 

Remember, O my friends, the laws, the rights, 
The generous plan of power deliver'd down 
From age to age, by your reuown'd fore-fathers, 
(So dearly bought, the price of so much blood.) 
O let it never perish in your hands .' 
But piously transmit it to your children. 

Though I would not take notice of it at that 
time, it went to my heart that Annabella, for 
whom I have long had some apprehensions, 
said nothing on this> occasion, but indulged 
herself in the sneer of a little mind, to see the 
rest so much affected. Mrs. Betty also, who 
tnows forsooth more than us all, overlooked 
the whole drama, but acknowledged the dresses 
of Syphaxand Juba were very prettily imagined. 
The love of virtue, which has been so warmly 
roused by this admirable piece in all parts of 
the theatre, is an unanswerable instance of 
how great force the stage might be towards 
the improvement of the world, were it regarded 
and encouraged as much as it ought. There 
is no medium in this case, for the advantages 
of action, and the representation of vice and 
virtue in an agreeable or odious manner before 
our eyes, are so irresistibly prevalent, that the 
theatre ought to be shut up, or carefully govern- 
ed, in any nation that values the promotion of 
virtue or guard of innocence among its people. 
Speeches cr sermons will ever suffer, in some 
degree, from the characters of those that make 
them ; and mankind are so unwilling to reflect 
on what makes for their own mortification, 
that they are ever cavilling against the lives 
of those who speak in the cause of goodness, 
to keep themselves in countenance, and con- 

tinue in beloved infirmities. But in the case 
of the stage, envy and detraction are baffled, 
and none are offended, but all insensibly won 
by personated characters, which they neither 
look upon as their rivals, or superiors ; every 
man that has any degree of what is laudable 
in a theatrical character, is secrectly pleased, 
and encouraged in the prosecution of that 
virtue without fancying any man about him has 
more of it. To this purpose I fell a talking 
at the tea table, when my lady Lizard, with a 
look of some severity towards Annabella and 
Mrs. Betty, was pleased to say, that it must 
be from some trifling prepossession of mind 
that any one could be unmoved with the cha- 
racters of this tragedy ; nor do I yet understand 
to what circumstance in the family her ladyship 
alluded, when she made all the company look 
serious, and rehearsed, with a tone more exalted, 
those words of the herione, 

In spite of all the virtues we can boast, 
The woman that deliberates is lost. 


Whereas Bat Pigeon in the Strand, hair- 
cutter to the family of the Lizards, has attained 
to great proficience in his art, Mr. Ironside 
advises all persons of fine heads, in order to 
have justice done them, to repair to that in- 
dustrious mechanic. 

N. B. Mr. Pigeon has orders to talk with, 
and examine into the parts and characters of 
young persons, before he thins the covering 
near the seat of the brain. 

No. 44.] Friday, May 1, 1713. 

Hac iter .Elysium nobis. Virg. 2£n. vi. 542. 

This path conducts us to th' Elysian fields. 

I have frequently observed in the walks be- 
longing to all the inns of court, a set of old 
fellows who appear to be humorists, and 
wrapped up in themselves ; but have long been 
at a loss when I have seen them smile, and 
name my name as I passed by, and say, Old 
Ironside wears well. I am a mere boy to some 
of them who frequent Gray's-inn, but am not 
a little pleased to find they are even with tht 
world, and return upon it its neglect towards 
them, which is all the defence we old fellowf 
have against the petulancy of young people. 
I am very glad to observe that these sages oi 
this peripatetic sect study tranquillity and in- 
dolence of body and mind, in the neighbour- 
hood of so much contention as is carried on 
among the students of Littleton. The follow- 
ing letter gives us some light into the manner* 
and maxims of these philosophers. 

* To the Guardian. 
' As the depredations of time and fortune 
have been lamented in all ages, those persons 


[No. 44, 

1 »nd disputed the tyranny of 
either of these, have employed the sublimest 
latioM of the writers in all languages. 
A> these deoi ssed heroes have had their places 
judiciously assigned tbea already in the temple 
of lame, I would immortalize some persons now 
ahve, r/ho to me are greater objects of envy, 
both as their bravery is exercised with the ut- 
most tranquillity and pleasure to themselves, 
and as they are substantially happy on this 
gtde the grave, in opposition to all the Greek 
and Latin scraps to the contrary. 

4 As therefore I am naturally subject to cruel 
inroads from the spleen, as I affirm all evil to 
come from the east, as I am the weather-glass 
of every company I come into, I sometimes, 
according to Shakspeare. 

Sit like my grandsire cut in alabaster, 

Sleep whilst 1 wake, and creep into the jaundice 

By being peevish. 

1 I would furnish out a table of merry fame, 
in envious admiration of those jovial blades, 
who disappoint the strokes of age and fortune 
with the same gayety of soul, as when through 
youth or affluence they were in their prime 
for fancy, frolic, and achievement. There 
are, you may observe, in all public walks, per- 
sons who by a singular shabbiness of their 
attire, make a very ridiculous appearance in 
the opinion of the men of dress. They are 
very sullen and involved, and appear in such 
a state of distress and tribulation as to be 
thought inconsolable. They are generally of 
that complexion which was in fashion during 
the pleasurable reign of Charles the second. 
Some of them, indeed, are of a lighter brown, 
whose fortunes fell with that of king James. 
Now these, who are the jest of such as take 
themselves, and the world usually takes, to be 
in prosperity, are the very persons whose hap- 
piness, were it understood, would be looked 
upon with burning envy. I fell into the dis- 
covery of them in the following manner. One 
day last summer, being particularly under the 
dominion of the spleen, 1 resolved to sooth my 
melancholy in the company of such, whose 
appearance promised a full return of any com- 
plaints I could possibly utter. Living near 
Gray's-inn walk, I went thither in search of 
the persons above described, and found some 
if them seated upon a bench, where, as Milton 

the unpierced shade 

Imbrowried their noontide bower. 

1 squeezed iu among them, and they did 
not only receive my moanings with singular 
ntimanity, but gave me all possible encourage- 
ment to enlarge them. If the blackness of 
my spleen raised any imaginary distemper of 
body, some one of them immediately sympa- 
thized with me. Ill spoke of any disappoint- 
ment in my fortune, uuithcr of them would 

abate my sorrowing by recounting to me his 
own defeat upon the very same circumstances. 
If I touched upon overlooked merit, the whole 
assembly seemed to condole with me very 
feelingly upon that particular. In short, I 
could not make myself so calamitous in mind, 
body, or circumstances, but some one of them 
was upon a level with me. When I had wound 
up my discourse, and was ripe for their intended 
raillery, at first they crowned my narration 
with several piteous sighs and groans, but after 
a short pause, and a signal given for the onset, 
they burst out into a most incomprehensible 
fit of laughter. You may be sure I was nota- 
bly out of countenance, which gave occasion 
to a second explosion of the same mirth. What 
troubled me most was, that their figure, age, 
and short swords, preserved them from any 
imputation of cowardice upon refusal of battle, 
and their number from insult. I had now no 
other way to be upon good terms with them, 
but desiring I might be admitted into this fra- 
ternity. This was at first vigorously opposed, 
it being objected to me, that I affected too 
much the appearance of a happy man to be 
received into a society so proud of appearing 
the most afflicted. However, as I only seemed 
to be what they really were, I am admitted by 
way of triumph upon probation for a year : 
and if within that time it shall be possible for 
them to infuse any of their gayety into me, 
I can, at Mon mouth-street, upon mighty easy 
terms, purchase the robes necessary for my 
installment into this order ; and when they 
have made me as happy, shall be willing to 
appear as miserable as any of this assembly. 
I confess I have ever since been ashamed, that 
I should once take that place to be sacred to 
the disconsolate, which I now must affirm to 
be the only Elysium on this side the Styx ; and 
that ever I should look upon those personages 
as lively instances of the outrage of time and 
fortune, who disallow their empire with such 
inimitable bravery. Some of these are pretty 
good classical scholars, and they follow these 
studies always walking, upon account of a cer- 
tain sentence in Pliny's epistles to the follow- 
ing effect. " 'Tis inconceivable how much the 
understanding is enlivened by the exercise of 
the body." If therefore their author is a little 
difficult, you will see them fleeting with a very 
precipitate pace, and when it has been very 
perplexed and abstruse, I have seen a couple 
of these students prepare their apprehensions 
by still quicker motions, till they run into 
wisdom. These courses do not only make them 
go through their studies with pleasure and 
profit, but there is more spirit and vigour in 
their dialogues after the heat and hurry of 
these perambulations. This place was chosen 
as the peculiar resort of these sages, not only 
upon account of its air and situation, but in 
regard to certain edifices and seats therein 

No. 44.] 



raised with great magnificence and conveni- 
ence : and here, after the toils of their walks, 
and upon any stress of weather, these blessed 
inhabitants assemble themselves. There is 
one building particularly, in which, if the day 
permit, they have the most frequent confer- 
ences, not so much because of the loveliness 
of its eminence, as a sentence of literature in- 
eircling the extremities of it, which I think is 
as follows : " Franciscus Bacon Eques Auratus 
Executor Testamenti Jeremice Bettenham Hu- 
*'us Hospitii Viri Abstemii et Contemplativi 
Hanc Sedem posuit in Memorium Ejusdcm." 
Now this structure being erected in honour- 
able memory of the abstemious, the contemp- 
lative Mr. Bettenham, they take frequent 
occasion to rally this erudition, which is to 
continue the remembrance of a person, who, 
according to their translation of the words, 
being confessed to have been of most splenetic 
memory, ought rather to lie buried in oblivion. 

Lest they should flag in their own way of 
conversation, they admit a fair-one to relieve 
them with hers. There are two or three thin 
existences among them, which I think I may 
call the ghosts of departed beaus, who pay their 
court more particularly to this lady, though 
their passion never rises higher than a kiss, 
which is always 

Yielded with coy submission, modest pride, 

And sweet reluctant amorous delay. Milton. 

' As it is the character of this fraternity to 
turn their seeming misfortunes to their advan- 
tage, they affirm it to be the greatest indul- 
gence imaginable in these amours, that nature 
perpetuates their good inclinations to the fair, 
by an inability to extinguish them. 

* During my year of probation, I am to pre- 
pare myself with such parts of history as have 
engaged their application during the leisure of 
their ill- fortune; I am therefore to read Rush- 
worth and Clarendon, in the perusal of which 
authors I am not obliged to enter into the 
ustness of their reflections and characters, but 
am desired to read, with an eye particularly 
curious, the battles of Marston-moor and Edge- 
hill, in one of which every man of this assem- 
oly has lost a relation ; and each has a story 
which none who has not read those battles is 
able to taste. 

' I had almost forgot to mention a most un- 
exampled piece of their gallantry. Some time 
since, in a prodigious foggy morning, I went 
tn search of these persons to their usual place 
of resort, and perhaps shall hardly be believed, 
when I affirm, that, notwithstanding they 
Sucked in so condensed and poisonous an aether, 
I found them enjoying themselves with as much 
vivacity, as if they had breathed in the serenity 
of Montpelier. 

' I am, Sir, 
* your most humble servant, 

< J. W.' 

No. 45.] Saturday, May % 1713. 

I do not know that I have been more inti 
mately moved with pity in my whole life, than 
when I was reading a letter from a young wo- 
man, not yet nineteen, in which there are these 
lamentable words, ' Alas! whither shall I fly? 
he has deceived, ruined, and left me.' The 
circumstances of her story are only those or- 
dinary ones, that her lover was a man of greate? 
fortune than she could expect would address to 
her upon honourable terms ; but she said to 
herself, ' She had wit and beauty, and such 
charms as often captivate so far as to make 
men forget those meaner considerations, and 
innocent freedoms were not to be denied. A 
gentleman of condition is not to be shunned 
purely for being such ; and they who took no- 
tice of it, did it only out of malice, because, 
they were not used by him with the same dis- 
tinction.' But I would have young women, 
who are orphans, or unguarded with powerful 
alliances, consider with horror the insolence of 
wealth. Fortune does in a great measure de- 
nominate what is vice and virtue ; or if it does 
not go so far, innocence is helpless, and oppres- 
sion unpunished without its assistance ; for 
this reason it is, that I would strictly recom- 
mend to my young females not to dally with 
men whose circumstances can support them 
against their falsehood, and have the fashion 
or c a base self-interested world on their side, 
which, instead of avenging the cause of aa 
abused women, will proclaim her dishonour ; 
while the person injured is shunned like a pes- 
tilence, he who did the wrong sees no difference 
in the reception he meets with, nor is he the 
less welcome to the rest of the sex, who are 
still within the pale of honour and innocence. 
What makes this circumstance the more la- 
mentable, is, that it frequently falls upon those 
who have greatest merit and understanding. 
Gentleness of disposition, and taste of polite 
conversation, I have often known snares toward 
vice in some, whilst sullenness and disrelish ot 
any thing that was agreeable, have been the 
only defences of virtue in others. I have my 
unhappy correspondent's letter before me ; and 
she says she is sure, he is so much a gentle- 
man, and he has that natural softness, that it 
he reads any thing moving on this subject in 
my paper, it will certainly make him think. 
Poor girl ! * Caesar ashamed ! Has not he seen 
Pharsalia ?' Does the poor creature imagine 
that a scrip of paper, a collection of sentences, 
and an old man's talk of pleasures which he is 
past, will have an effect upon him who could 
go on in a series of falsehood ; let drop ambi- 
guous sentences in her absence, to give her false 
hope from the repetition of them by some friend 
that heard them ; that could pass as much time 
in the pursuit of her, as would have attained 
some useful art or science j and that only to 



[No. 4C, 

attain a short revel of his 6enses, under a stupor 
of fail h, honour, and conscience! No; the de- 
struction of ■ well-educated young woman is 
not accomplished hy the criminal who is guilty 
of it, in a sudden start of desire ; he is not 
surprised iirto it hy frailty ; hut arrives at it by 
care, skill, and meditation. It is no small ag- 
gravation of the guilt, that it is a thousand 
times conquered and resisted, even while it is 
prosecuted. He that waits for fairer occasions, 
for riper wishes, for the removal of a particular 
objection, or the conquest of any certain scru- 
ple, has it in his power to obey his conscience, 
which often calls him, during the intrigue, a 
villain and a destroyer. There can be nothing 
said for such an evil : but that the restraints 
of shame and ignominy are broken down by 
the prevalence of custom. I do not, indeed, 
expect that my precautions will have any great 
weight with men of mode ; but I know not but 
they may be some way efficacious on those who 
have not yet taken their party, as to vice and 
virtue, for life ; but I know not how it is, but 
our sex has usurped a certain authority to ex- 
clude chastity out of the catalogue of masculine 
virtues, by which means females adventure all 
against those who have nothing to lose ; and 
they have nothing but empty sighs, tears, and 
reproaches, against those who reduced them to 
real sorrow and infamy. But as I am now 
talking to the world yet untainted, I will ven- 
ture to recommend chastity as the noblest male 

It is, methinks, very unreasonable, that the 
difficulty of attaining all other good habits is 
what makes them honourable, but in this case 
the very attempt is become ridiculous. But, 
in spite of all the raillery of the world, truth 
is still truth, and will have beauties inseparable 
from it. I should upon this occasion bring 
examples of heroic chastity, were I not afraid 
of having my paper thrown away hy the modish 
part of the town, who go no farther, at best, 
than the mere absence of ill, and are contented 
to be rather irreproachable than praiseworthy. 
Jn this particular, a gentleman in the court of 
Cyrus reported to his majesty the charms and 
beauty of Panthea, and ended his panegyric by 
telling him, that since he was at leisure he 
would carry him to visit her: hut that prince, 
who is a very great man to this cray, answered 
the pimp, because he was a man of quality, 
without roughness, and said with a smile, ' if 
I should visit her upon your introduction now 
I ha e leisure, I don't know but I might go 
again upon ber own invitation when I ought 
to be bitter employed.' But when I cast about 
all the instance! which I have met with in all 
my reading, I find not one so generous, so 
bonett, and 10 noble, as that of Joseph in holy 
writ. When bis matter bad trusted him so 
unreservedly (to speak it in the emphatical 
■Manet of the scripture) * 11. knew not aught 

he had, 6ave the bread which he did eat,' he was 
so unhappy as to appear irresistibly beautiful 
to his mistress ; but when this shameless woman 
proceeds to solicit him, how gallant is his an- 
swer ! ' Behold my master wotteth not what 
is with me in the house, and hath committed 
all that he hath to my hand, there is none 
greater in the house than I, neither hath he 
kept back any thing from me but thee, because 
thou art his wife.' The same argument, which 
a base mind would have made to itself for com- 
mitting the evil, was to this brave man the 
greatest motive for forbearing it, that he could 
do it with impunity; the malice and falsehood 
of the disappointed woman naturally arose on 
that occasion, and there is but a short step 
from the practice of virtue, to the hatred of it. 
It would therefore be worth serious considera- 
tion in both sexes, and the matter is of im- 
portance enough to them, to ask themselves 
whether they would change lightness of heart, 
indolence of mind, cheerful meals, untroubled 
slumbers, and gentle dispositions, for a constant 
pruriency, which shuts out all things that are 
great or indifferent, clouds the imagination 
with insensibility and prejudice to all manner 
of delight, but that which is common to all 
creatures that extend their species. 

A loose behaviour and an inattention to every 
thing that is serious, flowing from some degree 
of this petulancy, is observable in the generality 
of the youth of both sexes in this age. It is 
the one common face of most public meetings, 
and breaks in upon the sobriety, I will not say 
severity, that we ought to exercise in churches. 
The pert boys and flippant girls are but faint 
followers of those in the same inclinations, at 
more advanced years. 1 know not who can oblige 
them to mend their manners ; all that I pretend 
to is, to enter my protest that they are neither 
fine gentlemen nor fine ladies for this behaviour. 
As for the portraitures which I would propose 
as the images of agreeable men and women, if 
they are not imitated or regarded, I can only 
answer, as I remember Mr. Dryden did on the 
like occasion, when a young fellow, just come 
from the play of Cleomenes, told him in rail'- 
lery against the continency of his principal 
character, if I had been alone with a lady I 
should not have passed my time like your 
Spartan ; ' That may be,' answered the bard 
with a very grave face, * but give me leave to 
tell you, sir, you are no hero.' 

No. 46.] Monday, May 4, 1713. 

Sol;» est coelesU (ligna reperta toro. 

Ovid, Lib. S. Ep. i. 118. 

Alone found worthy a celestial bed. 

Yesterdav, at my lady Lizard's tea-table, 
the discourse happened to turn upon women of 
renown ; such as have distinguished themselves 
in the world by surprising actions, or by any 

No. 46.] 



great and shining qualities, so as to draw upon 
themselves the envy of their own sex, and the 
admiration of ours. My lady has been curious 
in collecting the lives o. the most famous, of 
which she has a considerable number, both in 
print and manuscript. This naturally led me 
to speak of Madam Maintenon: and, at the 
request of my lady and her daughters, I have 
undertaken to put together such circumstances 
of her life, as I had formerly gathered out of 
books, and picked up from conversation in my 

Madam Maintenon was born a gentlewo- 
man, her name is Frances Daubigne\ Mon- 
sieur Daubigne^ her grandfather, was not only 
a person of condition, but likewise of great 
merit. He was born in the year 1550, and 
died in 1630, the eightieth year of his age. A 
little before his death he writ his own epitaph, 
which is engraven upon his tomb-stone in the 
cloister of St. Peter's churcb at Geneva, and 
may be seen in Spon's history of that republic. 
Me was a leading man among the protestants 
in France, and much courted to come over to 
the opposite party. When he perceived there 
was no safety for him any longer in his own 
eountry, he fled for refuge to Geneva, about 
the year 1619. The magistrates and the clergy 
there, received him with great marks of honour 
and distinction : and he passed the remaining 
part of his life -amongst them in great esteem. 
Mezeray (the French historian) says, that he 
was a roan of great courage and boldness, of a 
ready wit, and of a fine taste in polite learning, 
as well as of good experience in matters of war. 

The son of this Daubigne' was father to the 
present madam Maintenon. This gentleman 
was thrown into prison when he was but a youth, 
for what reason I cannot learn ; but his life it 
seems, was in question, if the keeper of the 
prison's daughter (touched with his misfortunes 
and his merit) had not determined with herself 
to set him at liberty. Accordingly, a favourable 
opportunity presenting itself, she set the pri- 
soner at large, and accompanied him herself 
in. his flight. The lovers finding themselves 
now in no danger of being apprehended, mon- 
sieur Daubigne" acquitted himself of the promise 
he had given his fair deliverer, and married 
her publicly. To provide against their imme- 
diate want in a strange place, she had taken 
with her what she found at home most valuable 
and easy to be carried off. All this was con- 
verted into money ; and while their little trea- 
sure lasted, our new-married couple thought 
themselves the happiest persons living. But 
their provision now began to fail, and monsieur 
Daubigne^ who plainly saw the straits to which 
they must be in a little time reduced, notwith- 
standing all his love and tenderness, thought 
he should soon be in a far worse condition, than 
that from which he had so lately escaped. But 
Mfhat most afflicted him was to see that his 

wife, whom he loved so tenderly, must be re- 
duced to the utmost necessity, and that too at 
a time when she was big with child. 

Monsieur Daubigne - , pressed with these 
difficulties, formed to himself a very hazardous 
resolution ; and since the danger he saw in it 
was only to his person, he put it in execution 
without ever consulting his wife. The purpose 
he entered upon, was to venture back into 
France, and to endeavour there to get up some 
of his effects, and in a short time to have the 
pleasure of returning to his wife with some 
little means of subsistence. He flattered him- 
self, that he was now no longer thought of in 
his own couutry, and that, by the help of a 
friend, he might continue there unknown for 
some time. But upon trial it happened quite 
otherwise, for he was betrayed by those in whom 
he confided ; so that he was a second time cast 
into prison. I should have mentioned, that he 
left his wife without ever taking leave: and 
that the first notice she had of his design was 
by a letter, which he sent her from the place 
where he lay the first night. Upon the reading 
of it, she was immediately alarmed for the life 
of a husband so very dear to her ; but she fell 
into the last affliction when she received the 
news of his being imprisoned again, of which 
she had been apprehensive from the beginning. 
When her concern was a little abated, she con- 
sidered that the afflicting of herself could give 
him no relief; and despairing ever to be able 
a second time to bring about the delivery of 
her husband, and likewise finding it impossible 
for her to live long separated from him, she 
resolved to share in his misfortunes, and to live 
and die with him in his prison. Therefore, 
without the least regard to the danger of a 
woman's travelling in her condition (for she 
was now far gone with child) she entered upon 
her journey, and having found out her husband, 
voluntarily gave herself up to remain a prisoner 
with him. And here it was that she was de- 
livered of that daughter, who has since proved 
the wonder of her age. 

The relations of monsieur Daubigne^ dis- 
satisfied with his conduct and his marriage, 
had all of them abandoned him, excepting 
madam Villete, his sister, who used to- visit him. 
She could not but be touched with the condi- 
tion in which she found him, entirely destitute 
of all the conveniences, and almost the very 
necessaries of life. But that which most moved 
her compassion was, to see in the arms of a 
disconsolate mother, the poor helpless infant 
exposed amidst her cries, to cold, to nakedness, 
and hunger. In this extremity madam Villete 
took the child home with her, and gave her to 
the care of her daughter's nurse, with whom 
she was bred up for some time, as a foster-sister. 
Besides this, she sent the two prisoners several 
necessaries. Some time after, monsieur Dau- 
bigu£ found means, by changing: his religion, 



[No. 47. 

to g< t out i>f prison, upon condition he would 
quit the kingdom ; to which he consented. 

IfonsietlV Daublgtt£j knowing he was never 
Rke to tee Frahce more, got together what little 
iiicc he could, in order to make a long 
lOjage; and so, with a small family, he em- 
barked for America; where he and his wife 
lived in quiet, and made it their principal care 
to give their children (a son and a daughter) 
good education. 

These unfortunate parents died both in 
their exile, leaving their children very young. 
The daughter, who was elder than her brother, 
as she grew up began to be very desirous of 
seeing her native country ; this, together with 
the hopes she had of recovering something of 
that which once belonged to her father, made 
her willing to take the first opportunity of re- 
turning into France. Finding therefore a ship 
that was ready to sail thither, she went on 
board, and landed at Rochelle. From thence 
she proceeded directly to Poitou, and there 
made it her business first, to inquire out madam 
Villete, her aunt, who she knew very well was 
the person to whom she owed her life. Madam 
Villete received her with great marks of affec- 
tion ; and after informing her, that she must 
not expect to recover any thing of what had 
belonged to her father, since that was all ir- 
reparably lost and dissipated by his banishment, 
and the proceedings against him, she added, 
that she should be welcome, if she thought fit, 
to live with her, where at least she should 
never be reduced to want a subsistence. 

Mademoiselle Daubigne accepted the offer 
which her aunt made her, and studied by all 
means imaginable to render herself necessary 
and agreeable to a person upon whom she saw 
that she must entirely depend for every thing. 
More especially she made it her business to 
insinuate herself into the affections of her 
cousin, with whom she had one common nurse. 
And, to omit nothing that might please them, 
she expressed a great desire to be instructed 
in the religion of her ancestors; she was im- 
patient to have some conversation with minis- 
ters, and to frequent their sermons ; so that 
in a short time she began to take a great liking 
to the protestant religion. And it is not to be 
doubled, but that she would have openly pro- 
fessed this way of worship, if some of her fa- 
ther'-, relations that were papists, and who 
forsook him in his adversity, had not, to make 
their Own court, been busy in advertising some 
great nun of the danger" mademoiselle Dau- 
bigne* was in as to her salvation, and in de- 
manding thereupon an order to have her put 
into the hind-, of catholics. This piece of zeal 
was acceptable to the ruling party, and orders 
were immediately given that she should be 
taken from her aunt Villete, and put into the 
hand-> of her officious relations. 'Ibis was soon 
executed ; and mademoiselle Daubigne was in 

J a manner forced by violence from madam Vil- 
lete, who was the only relation that ever had 
taken any care of her. She shed abundance 
of tears at parting, and assured her aunt, and 
her cousin (who was now married to monsieur 
Saint Hermine) that she should always preserve, 
with the remembrance of their kindness, the 
good impressions she had received of their re- 
ligion, and never fail to acknowledge both the 
one and the other, when she found a time and 
occasion proper for it. 

No. 47.] Tuesday, May 5, 1713. 

Mademoiselle Daubigne was conducted 
from madam Villete's to a relation, who had 
a law-suit then depending at Paris ; and being 
for that reason obliged to go thither, she car- 
ried mademoiselle Daubign6 with her. This 
lady hired apartments in the same house where 
the famous Scaron was lodged. She made an 
acquaintance with him ; and one day, being 
obliged to go abroad alone upon a visit, she 
desired he would give her cousin leave, in the 
mean time, to come and sit with him ; know- 
ing very well that a young lady was in no dan- 
ger from such a person, and that perhaps it 
might turn to her advantage. Monsieur Scaron 
was, of all men living, the most unhappy in 
an untoward frame of body, being not only 
deformed, but likewise very infirm. In consi- 
deration of his wit and parts, he had a yearly 
pension from the court of five hundred crowns. 
Scaron was charmed with the conversation of 
mademoiselle Daubigne; and her kinswoman 
took frequent opportunities of leaving her with 
him. This gave Scaron occasion to discover 
still new beauties in her from time to time. 
She would sometimes entertain him with the 
story of her adventures and her misfortunes, 
beginning even with what she suffered before 
she was born ; all which she knew how to de- 
scribe in so expressive and moving a manner, 
that he found himself touched with a strong 
compassion towards her ; and resolved with 
himself, if not to make her happy, at least to 
set her at ease, by placing her in a nunnery at 
his own expense. But upon further delibera- 
tion he found himself very much inclined to 
lay before her an alternative, which, in all like- 
lihood, she never expected. One day, therefore, 
when she was left alone with him, as usual, he 
opened his intentions to her (as it is said) much 
after the following manner. * 1 am, made- 
moiselle,' says he, " not a little moved with 
your misfortunes, and the great sufferings you 
have undergone. I am likewise very sensible 
of the uneasy circumstances under which you 
labour at present; and I have now for some 
days been contriving with myself how to ex- 
tricate you out of all your difficulties. At last 
I have fallen upon two ways of doing what 
I so much desire; I leave you to determine 

No. 47.] 



according to your inclinations, in the choice of 
the one or the other: or, if neither of them 
please you, to refuse them both. My fortunes 
are too narrow to enable me to make yours 
answerable to your merit ; all that I am capa- 
ble of doing is, either to make you a joint par- 
taker with myself of the little I have, or to 
place you, at my own expense, in any convent 
you shall choose. I wish it were in my power 
to do more for you. Consult your own incli- 
nations, and do what you think will be most 
agreeable to yourself. As for my person, I do 
not pretend to recommend it to you ; I know 
I make but an ungainly figure ; but I am not 
able to new-mould it; I offer myself to you 
such as I am ; and yet, such as you see me, 
I do assure you that I would not bestow myself 
upon another ; and that I must have a very 
great esteem for you, ever to propose a mar- 
riage, which, of all things in the world, I have 
had the least in my thoughts hitherto. Consi- 
der, therefore, and take your final resolutions, 
either to turn nun, or to marry me, or to con- 
tinue in your present condition, without re- 
pining, since these do all of them depend upon 
your own choice. 

Mademoiselle Daubigne returned monsieur 
Scaron the thanks he so well deserved. She 
was too sensible of the disagreeableness of a 
dependant state, not to be glad to accept of a 
settlement that would place her at least above 
want. Finding, therefore, in herself no call 
towards a nunnery, she answered monsieur 
Scaron without hesitation, that, ' she had too 
great a sense of her obligations to him not to 
be desirous of that way of life that would give 
her the most frequent occasions of showing 
her gratitude to him.' Scaron, who was pre- 
possessed with the flattering hopes of passing 
his life with a person he liked so well, was 
charmed with her answer. They both came 
to a resolution, that he should ask her rela- 
tion's consent that very evening. She gave it 
very frankly; and this marriage, so soon con- 
cluded, was, as it were, the inlet to all the 
future fortunes of madam Maintenon. She 
made a good wife to Scaron, living happily 
with him, and wanted no conveniencies during 
his life ; but losing him, she lost all : his pen- 
sion ceased upon his death ; and she found 
herself again reduced to the same indigent 
condition in which she had been before her 

Upon this she retired into the convent in 
the Place Royale, founded for the relief of 
necessitous persons ; where the friends of her 
deceased husband took care of her. It was 
here the friendship between her and madam 
Saint Basile (a nun) had its beginning, which 
has continued ever since, for she still goes to 
visit her frequently in the convent de la Ra- 
quette, where she new lives." And, to the ho- 
nour of madam Maintenon, it must be allowed, 

that she has always been of a grateful temper, 
and mindful, in her high fortunes, of her 
old friends, to whom she had formerly been 

Her husband's friends did all they could 
to prevail upon the court to continue to her 
the pension which monsieur Scaron had en- 
joyed. In order to this, petitions were fre- 
quently given in, which began always with, 
' The widow Scaron most humbly prays your 
majesty,' &c. But all these petitions signified 
nothing ; and the king was so weary of them 
that he has been heard to say, ' Must I always 
be pestered with the widow Scaron ?' Notwith- 
standing which, her friends were resolved not 
to be discouraged in their endeavours to serve 

After this, she quitted the convent, and 
went to live in the hotel d'Albert, where her 
husband had always been very much esteemed. 
Here (it is said) something very remarkable 
happened to her, which I shall relate, because 
I find it so confidently affirmed upon the 
knowledge of a certain author. There were 
masons at work in the hotel d'Albert, not far 
from the apartment of madam Scaron. One 
of them came into her chamber, and, finding 
two or three visitants of her own sex, desired 
he might speak with her in private; she car- 
ried him into her closet, where he took upon 
him to tell her all the future events of her life. 
But whence he drew this knowledge (continues 
my author) which time has so wonderfully 
verified, is a mystery still to me. As to madam 
Scaron, she saw then so little appearance of 
probability in his predictions, that she hardly 
gave the least heed to them. Nevertheless, the 
company, upon her return, remarked some 
alteration in her countenance ; and one of the 
ladies said, * Surely this man has brought you 
some very pleasing news, for you look with a 
more cheerful air than you did before he came 
in.' * There would be sufficient reason-for my 
doing so,' replied she, ' if I could give any 
credit to what this fellow has promised me. 
And I can tell you,' says she, smiling, * that if 
there should be any thing in it, you will do 
well to begin to make your court to me before- 
hand.' These ladies could not prevail upon 
her to satisfy their curiosity any farther ; but 
she communicated the whole secret to a bosom 
friend after they were gone ; and it is from 
that lady it came to be known, when the events 
foretold were come to pass, and so scrupulous 
a secrecy in that point did no longer seem 

Some time after this, she was advised to 
seek all occasions of insinuating herself into 
the favour of madam Mountespan, who was 
the king's mistress, and had an absolute in- 
fluence over him. Madam Scaron, therefore, 
found the means of being presented to madam 
Mountespan, and at that time spoke to her 



[No. 4! 

with BO food I grace, that madam Mountespan, 
pitying her eircumstancea, and resulying to 

make them more easy, took upon her to carry 
■ petition from her to the king, and to deliver 
it with her own hands. The king, upon her 
presenting it to him, said ' What ! the widow 
Sc&ron again? Shall I never see any thing 
else?' ' Indeed, sir,' says madam Mountespan, 
1 it is now a long time since you ought not to 
have had her name mentioned to you any 
more; and it is something extraordinary that 
your majesty has done nothing all this while 
for a poor woman, who, without exception, 
deserves a much hetter condition, as well upon 
the account of her own merit, as of the repu- 
tation of her late husband.' The king, who 
was always glad of an opportunity to please 
madam Mountespan, granted the petitioner 
all that was desired. Madam Scaron came to 
thank her patroness; and madam Mountespan 
took such a liking to her, that she would by 
all means present her to the king, and, after 
that, proposed to him, that she might be made 
governante to their children. His majesty con- 
sented to it ; and madam Scaron, by her ad- 
dress and good conduct, won so much upon 
the affections and esteem of madam Moun- 
tespan, that in a little time she became her 
favourite and confidant. 

It happened one night that madam Moun- 
tespan sent for her, to tell her, that she was in 
great perplexity. She had just then, it seems, 
received a billet from the king, which required 
an immediate answer; and though she did by 
no means want wit, yet in that instant she 
found herself incapable of writing any thing 
with spirit. In the mean time the messenger 
waited for an answer, while she racked her 
invention to no purpose. Had there been no- 
thing more requisite, but to say a few tender 
things, she needed only to have copied the 
dictates of her heart ; but she had, over and 
above, the reputation of her style and manner 
of writing to maintain, and her invention played 
her false in so critical a juncture. This re- 
duced her to the necessity of de'siring madam 
Scaron to help her out; and giving her the 
king's billet, she bid her make an answer to it 
immediately. Madam Scaron would, out of 
modesty, have excused herself; but madam 
Mountespan laid her absolute commands upon 
her: so that she obeyed, and writ a most 
Agreeable billet, full of wit and tenderness. 
Madam Mountespan was very much pleased 
with it, she copied it, and sent it. The king 
waa infinitely delighted with it. He thought 
madam Mountespan had surpassed herself; 
and he attributed her more than ordinary wit 
upon this occasion to an increase of tenderness. 
The principal part of his amusement that night, 
was to read over and over again this letter, in 
which he discovered new beauties upon every 
reading. He thought himself the happiest 

and the most extraordinary man living, to bt 
able to inspire his mistress with such surpris- 
ing sentiments and turns of wit. 

Next morning, as soon as he was drest. he 
went directly to make a visit to madam Moun- 
tespan. ' What happy genius, madam,' sa_\^ 
he, upon his first coming into her chamber, 

influenced your thoughts last night? Never 
certainly was there any thing so charming, 
and so finely writ, as the billet you sent me ! 
and if you truly feel the tenderness you have 
so well described, my happiness is complete.' 
Madam Mountespan was in confusion with 
these praises, which properly belonged to an- 
other; and she could not help betraying some- 
thing of it by her blushes. The king perceived 
the disorder she was in, and was earnest to 
know the cause of it. She would fain have 
put it off; but the king's curiosity still increas- 
ing, in proportion to the excuses she made, 
she was forced to tell him all that had passed, 
lest he should of himself imagine something 
worse. The king was extremely surprised, 
though in civility he dissembled his thoughts 
at that time, nevertheless he could not help 
desiring to see the author of the letter that 
had pleased him so much; to satisfy himself 
whether her wit in conversation was equal to 
what it appeared in writing.' Madam Scaron 
now began to call to mind the predictions of 
the mason ; and from the desire the king had 
to see her, conceived no small hopes. Notwith- 
standing she now had passed the flower of her 
age, yet she flattered herself that her destiny 
had reserved this one conquest in store for her, 
and this mighty monarch to be her captive. 
She was exactly shaped, had a noble air, fine 
eyes, and a delicate mouth, with fresh ruddy 
lips. She has, besides, the art of expressing 
every thing with her eyes, and of adjusting 
her looks to her thoughts in such a manner, 
that all she says goes directly to the heart. 
The king was already prepossest in her favour ; 
and, after three or four times conversing with 
her, began visibly to cool in his affectious to- 
wards madam Mountespan. 

The king in a little time purchased for madam 
Scaron those lands which carry the name of 
Main tenon, a title which she from that time 
has taken. Never was there an instance of 
any favourite having so great a power over a 
prince, as what she has hitherto maintained. 
None can obtain the least favour but by im- 
mediate application to her. Some are of opi- 
nion that she has been the occasion of all the 
ill treatment which the protestants have met 
with, and consequently of the damage the 
whole kingdom has received from those pro- 
ceedings. But it is more reasonable to think 
that whole revolution was brought about by 
the contrivances of the Jesuits ; and she has 
always been known to be too little a favourer 
of that order of men to promote their intrigues. 

No. 48.] 



Besides, it is not natural to think that she, who 
formerly had a good opinion of the reformed 
religion, and was pretty well instructed in the 
protestant faith and way of worship, should 
ever be the author of a persecution against 
those innocent people, who never had in any 
thing offended her. 

No. 48.] Wednesday, May 6, 1713. 

It is the general opinion, that madam 
Maintenon has of late years influenced all the 
measures of the court of France. The king, 
when he has taken the air after dinner, never 
fails of going to sit with her till about ten 
o'clock ; at which time he leaves her to go to 
his supper. The comptroller general of the 
finances likewise comes to her apartments to 
meet the king. While they are in discourse 
madam Maintenon sits at her wheel towards 
the other end of the room, not seeming to give 
the least attention to what is said. Never- 
theless, the minister never makes a proposition 
to the king, but his majesty turns towards her, 
and says, ' What think you, madam, of this?' 
She expresses her opinion after a modest man- 
ner; and whatsoever she says is done. Madam 
Maintenon never appears in public, except when 
she goes with the king to take the air; and 
then she sits on the same seat with the king, 
with her spectacles on, working a piece of 
embroidery, and does not seem to be so much 
as sensible of the great fortunes and honours 
to which she has raised herself. She is always 
very modestly drest, and never appears with 
any train of servants. Every morning she goes 
to St. Cyr, to give her orders there, it being a 
kind of a nursery founded by herself for the 
education of young ladies of good families, but 
no fortune. She returns from thence about 
the time the king rises, who never fails to pay 
her a morning visit. She goes to mass always 
by break of day, to avoid the concourse of 
people. She is rarely seen by any, and almost 
inaccessible to every body, excepting three or 
four particular acquaintance of her own sex. 
Whether it be, that she would by this conduct 
avoid envy, as some think ; or, as others would 
have it, that she is afraid the rank which she 
thinks due to her should be disputed in all 
visits and public places, is doubtful. It is 
certain, that upon all occasions she declines 
the taking of any rank ; and the title of 
Marquisse (which belongs to the lands the king 
purchased for her) is suppressed before her 
name ; neither will she accept of the title of 
a duchess, aspiring in all probability at some- 
thing still higher, as will appear by what follows. 
From several particulars in the conduct of 
the French king, as well as in that of madam 
Maintenon, it has for some years been the pre- 
vailing opinion of the court that they are mar- 

ried. And it is said, that her ambition of 
being declared queen broke out at last ; and 
that she was resolved to give the king no quiet 
till it was done. He for some time resisted 
all her solicitations upon that head, but at 
length, in a fit of tenderness and good nature, 
he promised her, that he would consult his 
confessor upon that point. Madam Maintenon 
was pleased with this, not doubting but that 
father La Chaise would be glad of this occasiou 
of making his court to her ; but he was too 
subtle a courtier not to perceive the danger of 
engaging in so nice an affair ; and for that 
reason evaded it, by telling the king, that he 
did not think himself a casuist able enough to 
decide a question of so great importance, and 
for that reason desired he might consult with 
some man of skill and learning, for whose 
secrecy he would be responsible. The king 
was apprehensive lest this might make the 
matter too public ; but as soon as father La 
Chaise named monsieur Fenelon, the arch- 
bishop of Cambray, his fears were over ; and 
he bid him go and find him out. As soon as 
the confessor had communicated the business 
he came upon to the bishop, he said, ' What 
have I done, father, that you should ruin me! 
But 'tis no matter ; let us go to the king.' His 
majesty was in his closet expecting them. The 
bishop was no sooner entered, but he threw 
himself at the king's feet, and begged of him 
not to sacrifice him. The king promised him 
that he would not; and then proposed the 
case to him. The bishop, with his usual sin- 
cerity, represented to him the great prejudice 
he would do himself by declaring his marriage, 
together with the ill consequences that might 
attend such a proceeding. The krng very 
much approved his reasons, and resolved to go 
no farther in this affair. Madam Maintenon 
still pressed him to comply with her, but it 
was now all to no purpose ; and he told her 
it was not a thing to be done. She asked 
him, if it was father La Chaise who dissuaded 
him from it. He for some time refused to 
give her any answer, but at last, overcome by 
her importunities, he told her every thing as 
it had passed. She upon this dissembled her 
resentment, that she might be the more able 
to make it prove effectual. She did by no 
means think the Jesuit was to be forgiven; 
but the first marks of her vengeance fell upon 
the archbishop of Cambray. He and all his 
relations were, in a little time, put out of all 
their employments at court ; upon which he 
retired to live quietly upon his bishopric ; and 
there have no endeavours been spared to de- 
prive him even of that. As a farther in- 
stance of the incontrollable power of this great 
favourite, and of her resenting even the most 
trivial matters that she thinks might tend to 
ber prejudice, or the diminution of her honour 
it is remarkable, that the Italian comedians 


N T o. 42. 

were driven OOt of Faris for playing a comedy 
Ollled U Fauna Frude, which was supposed 
to r. Beet upon madam Maintenon in parti- 

It is something very extraordinary, that 
the has heen ahle to keep entire the affections 
of the king so many years, after her youth and 
beauty were gone, and never fall into the least 
disgrace ; notwithstanding the number of ene- 
mies she has had, and the intrigues that have 
been formed against her from time to time. 
This brings into my memory a saying of king 
William's, that I have heard on this occasion; 
That the king of France was in his conduct 
quite opposite to other princes ; since he made 
choice of young ministers, and an old mistress.' 
Hut this lady's charms have not lain so much 
in her person, as in her wit and good sense. 
She has always had the address to flatter the 
vanity of the king, and to mix always some- 
thing solid and useful with the more agreeable 
parts of her conversation. She has known how 
to introduce the most serious affairs of state 
into their hours of pleasure; by telling his 
majesty, that a monarch should not love, nor 
do any thing, like other men; and that he, 
of all men living, knew best how to be always 
a king, and always like himself, even in the 
midst of his diversions. The king now con- 
verses with her as a friend, and advises with 
her upon his most secret affairs. He has a 
true love and esteem for her; and has taken 
care, in case he should die before her, that 
she may pass the remainder of her life with 
honour, in the abbey of St. Cyr. There are 
apartments ready fitted up for her in this 
place ; she and all her domestics are to be 
maintained out of the rents of the house, and 
she is to receive all the honours due to a 
foundress. This abbey stands in the park of 
Versailles ; it is a fine piece of building, and 
the king has endowed it with large revenues. 
The design of it, (as I have mentioned before) 
is to maintain and educate young ladies, whose 
fortunes do not answer to their birth. None 
are accounted duly qualified for this place but 
such as can give sufficient proofs of the nobility 
of their family on the father's side for a hun- 
dred and forty years; besides which, they must 
have a certificate of their poverty under the 
hand of their bishop. The age at which per- 
sons are capable of being admitted here is from 
seven years old till twelve. Lastly, it is re- 
quired, that they should have no defect or 
blemish of body or mind ; and for this reason 
there are persons appointed to visit and exa- 
mine them before they are received into the 
college. When these young ladies are once 
admitted, their parents and relations have no 
need to put themselves to any farther expense 
or trouble about them. They are provided 
with all necessaries for maintenance and edu- 
cation. They style themselves of the order of 

St. Lewis. When they arrive to an age to be 
able to choose a state of life for themselves, 
they may either be placed as nuns in some 
convent at the king's expense, or be married 
to some gentleman, whom madam Maintenon 
takes care, upon that condition, to provide 
for, either in the army or in the finances ; and 
the lady receives besides, a portion of four 
hundred pistoles. Most of these marriages 
have proved very successful ; and several gen- 
tlemen have by them made great fortunes, 
and been advanced to very considerable em- 

I must conclude this short account of ma- 
dam Maintenon with advertising my readers, 
that 1 do not pretend to vouch for the several 
particulars that I have related. All I can say 
is, that a great many of them are attested by 
several writers; and that I thought this sketch 
of a woman so remarkable all over Europe, 
would be no ill entertainment to the curious, 
till such a time as some pen, more fully in- 
structed in her whole life and character, shall 
undertake to give it to the public. 

No. 49.] Thursday, May 7, 1713. 

— quas possit facere et servare beatiim. 

Uor. Lib. 1. Ep. vi. £." 

To make men happy and to keep thein so. Creech. 

It is of great use to consider the pleasures 
which constitute human happiness, as they are 
distinguished into natural and fantastical. Na- 
tural pleasures I call those, which, not depend- 
ing on the fashion and caprice of any particular 
age or nation, are suited to human nature in 
general, and were intended by Providence as 
rewards for the using our faculties agreeably 
to the ends for which they were given us. Fan- 
tastical pleasures are those which, having no 
natural fitness to delight our minds, pre-sup- 
pose some particular whim or taste accidentally 
prevailing in a set of people, to which it is 
owing that they please. 

Now I take it, that the tranquillity and 
cheerfulness with which I have passed my life, 
are the effect of having, ever since I came to 
years of discretion, continued my inclinations 
to the former sort of pleasures. But as my ex- 
perience can be a rule only to my own actions, 
it may probably be a stronger motive to induce 
others to the same scheme of life, if they would 
consider that we are prompted to natural plea- 
sures by an instinct impressed on our minds 
by the Author of our nature, who best under- 
stands our frames, and consequently best knows 
what those pleasures are which will give us 
the least uneasiness in the pursuit, and the 
greatest satisfaction in the enjoyment of them. 
Hence it follows, that the objects of our natu- 
ral desires are cheap, or easy to be obtained, 
it being a maxim tint holds throughout the 

No. 49.] 



whole system of created beings, * that nothing 
is made in vain,' much less the instincts and 
appetites of animals, which the benevolence as 
well as wisdom of the Deity, is concerned to 
provide for. Nor is the fruition of those ob- 
jects less pleasing than the acquisition is easy ; 
and the pleasure is heightened by the sense of 
having answered some natural end, and the 
consciousness of acting in concert with the 
Supreme Governor of the universe. 

Under natural pleasures 1 comprehend those 
which are universally suited, as well to the 
rational as the sensual part of our nature. And 
of the pleasures which affect our senses, those 
only are to be esteemed natural that are con- 
tained within the rules of reason, which is 
allowed to be as necessary an ingredient of 
human nature as sense. And, indeed, excesses 
of any kind are hardly to be esteemed pleasures, 
much less natural pleasures. 

It is evident, that a desire terminated in 
money is fantastical ; so is the desire of outward 
distinctions, which bring no delight of sense, 
nor recommend us as useful to mankind ; and 
the desire of things merely because they are 
new or foreign. Men who are indisposed to 
a due exertion of their higher parts are driven 
to such pursuits as these from the restlessness 
of the mind, and the sensitive appetites being 
easily satisfied. It is, in some sort, owing to 
the bounty of Providence, that disdaining a 
cheap and vulgar happiness, they frame to 
themselves imaginary goods, in which there is 
nothing can raise desire, but the difficulty of 
obtaining them. Thus men become the con- 
trivers of their own misery, as a punishment 
on themselves for departing from the measures 
of nature. Having by an habitual reflection 
on these truths made them familiar, the effect 
is, that I, among a number of persons who 
have debauched their natural taste, see things 
in a peculiar light, which I have arrived at, 
not by any uncommon force of genius, or ac- 
quired knowledge, but only by unlearning the 
false notions instilled by custom and education. 

The various objects that compose the world 
were by nature formed to delight our senses, 
and as it is this alone that makes them de- 
sirable to an uncorrupted taste, a man may be 
said naturally to possess them, when he pos- 
sesseth those enjoyments which they are fitted 
by nature to yield. Hence it is usual with 
me to consider myself as having a natural pro- 
perty in every object that administers pleasure 
to me. When I am in the country, all the fine 
seats near the place of my residence, and to 
which I have access, I regard as mine. The 
same I think of the groves and fields where I 
walk, and muse on the folly of the civil landlord 
in London, who has the fantastical pleasure 
of draining dry rent into his coffers, but is a 
stranger to fresh air and rural enjoyments. 
By these principles I am possessed of half a 

dozen of the finest seats in England, which in 
the eye of the law belong to certain of my ac- 
quaintance, who being men of business choose 
to live near the court. 

In some great families, where I choose ta 
pass my time, a stranger would be apt to rank 
me with the other domestics; but in my own 
thoughts, and natural judgment, I am master 
of the house, and he who goes by that name is 
my steward, who eases me of the care of pro- 
viding for myself the conveniences and plea- 
sures of life. 

jWhen I walk the streets, I use the foregoing 
natural maxim (viz. That he is the true pos- 
sessor of a thing who enjoys it, and not he that 
owns it without the enjoyment of it,) to con- 
vince myself that I have a property in the gay 
part of all the gilt chariots that I meet, which 
I regard as amusements designed to delight 
my eyes, and the imagination of those kind 
people who sit in them gaily attired only to 
please me. I have a real, and they only an 
imaginary pleasure from their exterior embel- 
lishments. Upon the same principle, I have 
discovered that I am the natural proprietor of 
all the diamond necklaces, the crosses, stars, 
brocades, and embroidered clothes, which I see 
at a play or birth-night, as giving more natural 
delight to the spectator than to those that 
wear them. And .1 look on the beaus ana 
ladies as so many paroquets in an aviary, or 
tulips in a garden, designed purely for my diver- 
sion. A gallery of pictures, a cabinet, or library, 
that I have free access to, I think my own. 
In a word, all that I desire is the use of things, 
let who will have the keeping of them. By 
which maxim I am grown one of the richest 
men in Great Britain ; with this difference, 
that I am not a prey to my own cares, or the 
envy of others. 

The same principles I find of great use in 
my private economy. As I cannot go to the 
price of history-painting, I have purchased at 
easy rates several beautifully designed pieces 
of landscape and perspective, which are much 
more pleasing to a natural taste than unknown 
faces or Dutch gambols, though done by the 
best masters ; my couches, beds, and window- 
curtains are of Irish stuff, which those of that 
nation work very fine, and with a delightful 
mixture of colours. There is not a piece of 
china in my house ; but I have glasses of all 
sorts, and some tinged with the finest colours,, 
which are not the less pleasing, because they 
are domestic, and cheaper than foreign toys* 
Every thing is neat, entire, and clean, and fittest 
to the taste of one who had rather be happy 
than be thought rich. 

Every day, numberless innocent and natural 
gratifications occur to me, while I behold my 
fellow- creatures labouring in a toilsome and ab- 
surd pursuit of trifles ; one that he may be called 
by a particular appellation ; another, that he 



[No. 50. 

may wear a particular ornament, which I regard 
as a bit of riband that has an agreeable effect on 
my sight, but is so far from supplying the place 
of merit where it is not, that it serves only to 
make the want of it more conspicuous. Fair 
weather is the joy of my soul; about noon 1 
behold a blue sky with rapture, and receive 
ffiftt consolation from the rosy dashes of light 
which adorn the clouds of the morning and 
evening. When I am lost among green trees 
J do not envy a great man with a great crowd 
at his levee. And 1 often lay aside thoughts 
of going to an opera, that I may enjoy the 
silent pleasure of walking by moonlight, or 
viewing the stars sparkle in their azure ground ; 
which 1 look upon as part of my possessions, 
not without a secret indignation at the taste- 
lessness of mortal men, who in their race 
through life overlook the real enjoyments of it. 
But the pleasure which naturally affects a 
human mind with the most lively and trans- 
porting touches, I take to be the sense that 
we act in the eye of infinite wisdom, power, 
and goodness, that will crown our virtuous 
endeavours here, with a happiness hereafter, 
large as our desires, and lasting as our immor- 
tal souls. This is a perpetual spring of glad- 
ness in the mind. This lessens our calamities, 
and doubles our joys. Without this the highest 
state of life is insipid, and with it the lowest 
is a paradise. What unnatural wretches then 
are those who can be so stupid as to imagine 
a merit, in endeavouring to rob virtue of her 
support, and a man of his present as well as 
future bliss ? But as I have frequently taken 
occasion to animadvert on that species of mor- 
tals, so I propose to repeat my animadversions 
on them till I see some symptoms of amend- 

No. 50.] Friday, May 8, 1713. 

O nw, qnando ego te aspiciam ? 

Hot: Lib. 2. Sat. vi. 60. 
O ! when Bhall I enjoy my country seat ? 

The perplexities and diversions, recounted 
in the following letter, are represented with 
Borne pleasantry; I shall, therefore, make this 
epistle the entertainment of the day. 

4 To Nestor Ironside, Esquire. 

• SIK, 

The time of going into the country draw- 
ing mar, I am extremely enlivened with the 
agreeable memorial of every thing that con- 
tributed to mv happiness when I was last there. 
In tbt recounting of which, I shall not dwell 
so much upon the verdure of the fields, the 
ihftfta of wood-,, the trilling of rivulets, or me- 
lody of birds, as upon some part icnlar satisfac- 
tion!, which, though not merely rural, must 

naturally create a desire of seeing that piace, 
where only I have met with them. As to my 
passage I shall make no other mention, than 
of the pompous pleasure of being whirled along 
with six horses, the easy grandeur of lolling in 
a handsome chariot, the reciprocal satisfaction 
the inhabitants of all towns and villages re- 
ceived from, and returned to, passengers of 
such distinction. The gentleman's seat (.with 
whom, among others, I had the honour to go 
down) is the remains of an ancient castle which 
has suffered very much for the loyally of its 
inhabitants. The ruins of the several turrets 
and strong holds gave my imagination more 
pleasant exercise than the most magnificent 
structure could, as I look upon the honourable 
wounds of a defaced soldier with more venera- 
tion than the most exact proportion of a beau- 
tiful woman. As this desolation renewed in 
me a general remembrance of the calamities 
of the late civil wars, I began to grow desirous 
to know the history of the particular scene of 
action in this place of my abode. I here must 
beseech you not to think me tedious in men- 
tioning a certain barber, who, for his general 
knowledge of things and persons, may be had 
in equal estimation with any of that order 
among the Romans. This person was allowed 
to be the best historian upon the spot; and 
the sequel of my tale will discover that I did 
not choose him so much for the soft touch of 
his hand, as his abilities to entertain me with 
an account of the Leaguer Time, as he calls 
it, the most authentic relations of which, 
through all parts of the town are derived from 
this person. I found him, indeed, extremely 
loquacious, but withal a man of as much vera- 
city as an impetuous speaker could be. The 
first time he came to shave me, before he ap- 
plied his weapon to my chin, he gave a flourish 
with it, very like the salutation the prize- 
fighters give the company with theirs, which 
made me apprehend incision would as certainly 
ensue. The dexterity of this overture consists 
in playing the razor, with a nimble wrist, 
mighty near the nose without touching it: 
convincing him, therefore, of the dangerous 
consequence of such an unnecessary agility, 
with much persuasion I suppressed it. During 
the perusal of my face he gives me such ac- 
counts of the families in the neighbourhood, 
as tradition and his own observation have fur- 
nished him with. Whenever the precipitation 
of his account makes him blunder, his cruel 
right-hand corresponds, and the razor discovers 
on my face, at what part of it he was in the 
peaceable, and at what part in the bloody in- 
cidents of his narrative. But I had long be- 
fore learned to expose my person to any diffi- 
culties that might tend to the improvement of 
my mind. His breath, I found, was very pes- 
tilential, and being obliged to utter a great 
deal of it, for the carrying on his narrations, 

No. 50.] 



I heseeched him, before be came into my room, 
to go into the kitchen and mollify it with a break- 
fast. When he had taken off my beard, with 
part of my face, and dressed my wounds in 
the capacity of a barber-surgeon, we traversed 
the outworks about the castle, where I received 
particular information in what places any of 
note among the besiegers, or the besieged, re- 
ceived any wound, and I was carried always to 
the very spot where the fact was done, howso- 
ever dangerous (scaling part of the walls, or 
stumbling over loose stones) my approach to 
such a place might be ; it being conceived im- 
possible to arrive at a true knowledge of those 
matters without this hazardous explanation 
upon them ; insomuch that I received more 
contusions from these speculations, than I pro- 
bably could have done, had I been the most 
bold adventurer at the demolition of this castle. 
This, as all other his informations, the barber 
so lengthened and husbanded with digressions, 
that he had always something new to offer, 
wisely concluding that when he had finished 
the part of a historian, I should have no oc- 
casion for him as a barber. 

* Whenever I looked at this ancient pile of 
building, I thought it perfectly resembled any 
of those castles, which in my infancy I had 
met with in romances, where several unfor- 
tunate knights and ladies, were, by certain 
giants, made prisoners irrecoverably, till "the 
knight of the burning pestle," or any other of 
equal hardiness, should deliver them from a 
long captivity. There is a park adjoining, 
pleasant beyond the most poetical description, 
one part of which is particularly private by 
being inaccessible to those that have not great 
resolution. This I have made sacred to love 
and poetry, and after having regularly invoked 
the goddess I adore, I here compose a tender 
couplet or two, which, when I come home, I 
venture to show my particular friends, who 
love me so well as to conceal my follies. After 
my poetry sinks upon me, I relieve the labour 
of my brain by a little manuscript with my 
pen-knife ; while, with Rochester, 

' Here on a beech, like amorous sot, 
' I sometime carve a true-love's knot ; 

There a tall oak her name does bear, 
In a large spreading character.' 

' I confess once whilst I was engraving one 
of my most curious conceits upon a delicate 
smooth bark, my feet, in the tree which I had 
gained with much skill, deserted me ; and the 
lover, with much amazement, came plump into 
the river; I did not recover the true spirit of 
amour under a week, and not without applying 
myself to some of the softest passages in Cas- 
sandra and Cleopatra. 

' These are the pleasures I met without 
doors ; those within were as follow. J had the 
happiness to lie in a room that had a large 

hole opening from it, which, by unquestionable 
tradition, had been formerly continued to an 
abbey two miles from the castle, for a com- 
munication betwixt the austere creatures of 
that place, with others not altogether so con- 
templative. And the keeper's brother assures 
me that when he formerly lay in this room, he 
had seen some of the spirits of this departed 
brotherhood, enter from the hole into this 
chamber, where they continued with the ut- 
most civility to flesh and blood till they were 
oppressed by the morning air. And if I do not 
receive his account with a very serious and be- 
lieving countenance, he ventures to laugh at 
me as a most ridiculous infidel. The most 
unaccountable pleasure I take is with a fine 
white young owl, which strayed one night in 
at my window, and which I was resolved to 
make a prisoner, but withal to give all the 
indulgence that its confinement could possibly 
admit of. I so far insinuated myself into his 
favour, by presents of fresh provisions, that we 
could be very good company together. There 
is something in the eye of that creature, of 
such merry lustre, something of such human 
cunning in the turn of his visage, that I found 
vast delight in the survey of it. One objection 
indeed I at first saw, that this bird being the 
bird of Pallas, the choice of this favourite might 
afford curious matter of raillery to the inge- 
nious, especially when it shall be known, that 
I am as much delighted with a cat as ever 
Montaigne was. But, notwithstanding this, 
I am so far from being ashamed of this parti- 
cular humour, that I esteem myself very happy 
in having my odd taste of pleasure provided 
for upon such reasonable terms. What height- 
ened all the pleasures I have spoke of, was the 
agreeable freedom with which the gentleman of 
the house entertained us ; and every one of us 
came into, or left the company as he thought 
fit ; dined in his chamber, or the parlour, as a 
fitof spleen or study directed him ; nay, some- 
times every man rode or walked a different 
way, so that we never were together but when 
we were perfectly pleased with ourselves and 
each other. 

' I am, Sir, 
' Your most obedient humble servant,' 

' R. B.' 

P. S. I had just given my orders for the press, 
when my friend Mrs. Bicknell made me a visit. 
She came to desire 1 would show her the ward- 
robe of the Lizards, (where the various habits 
of the ancestors of that illustrious family are 
preserved) in order to furnish her with a pro- 
per dress for the Wife of Bath. Upon sight 
of the little ruffs, she snatched one of them 
from the pin, clapt it round her neck, and 
turning briskly towards me repeated a speech 
out of her part in the comedy of that name. 
If the rest of the actors enter into their several 



[No. 51 

pafti with the Mme spirit, (he humorous cha- 
racter! Of this play cannot hut appear excellent 
tin at re: for very good judges have in- 
formed me, that the author has drawn them 
with great propriety, and an exact observation 
t-i" the manner*. nlsior ironside. 

No. 5 J.] Saturday, May 9, 1713. 

Ues antiqns laudis et artis 

Iiij»redior, sauctos ausus recludcre fontes. 

Virg. Georg. ii. 174. 
Oi' arts disclos'd in ancient days, I sing, 
And venture to unlock the sacred spring. 

It is probahle the first poets were found at 
the altar, that they employed their talents in 
adorning and animating the worship of their 
gods : the spirit of poetry and religion recipro- 
cally warmed each other, devotion inspired 
poetry, and poetry exalted devotion ; the most 
sublime capacities were put to the most noble 
use; purity of will, and fineness of under- 
standing, were not such strangers as they have 
been it) latter ages, but were most frequently 
lodged in the same breast, and went, as it 
were, hand in hand to the glory of the world's 
great Ruler, and the benefit of mankind. To 
reclaim our modern poetry, and turn it into 
its due and primitive channel, is an endeavour 
altogether worthy a far greater character than 
the Guardian of a private family. Kingdoms 
might be the better for the conversion of the 
rouses from sensuality to natural religion, and 
princes on their thrones might be obliged and 
protected by its power. 

Were it modest, I should profess myself a 
great admirer of poesy, but that profession is 
in effect telling the world that I have a heart 
tender and generous, a heart that can swell 
with the joys, or be depressed with the mis- 
fortunes of others, nay more, even of imaginary 
persons ; a heart large enough to receive the 
greatest ideas nature can suggest, and delicate 
enough to relish the most beautiful; it is de- 
siring mankind to believe that I am capable 
of entering into all those subtle graces, and 
all that divine elegance, the enjoyment of 
which is to be felt only, and not expressed. 

All kinds of poesy are amiable; but sacred 
poesy should be our most especial delight. 
Other poetry leads us through flowery mea- 
dows or beautiful gardens, refreshes us with 
cooling breezes or delicious fruits, sooths us 
with the murmur of waters or the melody of 
birdl, or t Isc conveys us to the court or camp ; 
llazzles our imagination with crowns and scep- 
tn ^, embattled hosts, or heroes shining in hur- 
Dbbed Iteelj but sacred numbers seem to ad- 
mit u, into a solemn and magnificent temple, 

th< >• encircle m arith every thing that is holy 

ami divine, they luperadd an agreeable awe and 
reverence to all those pleasing emotions we feci | 

from other lay3, an awe and reverence that 
exalts, while it chastises : its sweet authority 
restrains each undue liberty of thought, word, 
and action : it makes us think better and more 
nobly of ourselves, from a consciousness of the 
great presence we are in, where saints surround 
us, and angels are our fellow worshippers : 

let me glory, glory in my choice ! 

Whom should I sing, but him who gave me voice! 
Thil theme shall last, when Homer's shall decay, 
When arts, arms, kings, and kingdoms melt away. 
And can it, powers immortal, cm it be," 
That this high province was reserved for me T 
Whate'cr the new, the rash adventure cost, 
In wide eternity I dare be lost. 

1 dare launch out, and shew the muses more 
Than e'er the learned sisters saw before. 

In narrow limits they were wont to sing, 

To teach the twain, or celebrate the king : 

I grasp the whole, no more to parts contin'd, 

I lift my voice, and sing to human-kind ; 

I sing to men and angels : angels join 

(While such the theme) their sacrtd hymns with mine.* 

But besides the greater pleasure which we 
receive from sacred poesy, it has another vast 
advantage above all other: when it has placed 
us in that imaginary temple (of which I just 
now spoke) methinks the mighty genius of 
the place covers us with an invisible baud, 
secures us in the enjoyments we possess. We 
find a kind of refuge in our pleasure, and our 
diversion becomes our safety. Why then should 
not every heart that is addicted to the muses, 
cry out in the holy warmth of the best poet 
that ever lived, ' I will magnify thee, O Lord, 
my king, and 1 will praise thy name for ever, 
and ever.' 

That greater benefit may be reaped from 
sacred poesy than from any other, is indisputa- 
ble; but is it capable of yielding such exqui- 
site delight? Has it a title only to the regard 
of the serious and aged ? Is it only to be read 
on Sundays, and to be bound in black ? Or 
does it put in for the good esteem of the gay, 
the fortunate, the young? Can it rival a ball 
or a theatre, or give pleasure to those who are 
conversant with beauty, and have their palates 
set high with all the delicacies and poignancy 
of human wit ? 

That poetry gives us the greatest pleasure 
which affects us most, and that affects us most 
which is on a subject in which we have the 
deepest concern ; for this reason it is a rule in 
epic poetry that the tale should be taken from 
the history of that country to which it is writ- 
ten, or at farthest from their distant ancestors. 
Thus Homer sung Achilles to the descendants 
of Achilles ; aud Virgil to Augustus that hero's 

Genus trade Lathmm 

A 1 1. aniline paties, atque allx intern, 1 Roma. 

/F.n. 1. 6. 

From whence the race of Alban fathers conic, 

And the louy glories of majestic Koine. Drydcn. 

• Dr. Young's Last Day Buok II. 7, &c. 

No. 5 1. J 



Had they changed subjects, they had certainly 
been worse poets at Greece and Rome, whatever 
they had been esteemed by the rest of man- 
kind ; and in what suhjeots have we the greatest 
concern, but in those at the very thought of 
which ' This world grows less and less, and all 
its glories fade away ?' 

All other poesy must be dropt at the gate of 
death, this alone can enter with us into im- 
mortality ; it will admit of an improvement 
only, not (strictly speaking) an entire altera- 
tion, from the converse of cherubim and sera- 
phim. It shall not be forgotten when the sun 
and moon are remembered no more ; it shall 
never die, but (if I may so express myself) be 
the measure of eternity, and the laudable am- 
bition of heaven. 

How then can any other poesy come in com- 
petition with it ? 

Whatever great or dreadful has been done, 
Within the view of conscious stars or sun, 
Is far beneath my daring ! I look down 
On all the splendours of the British crown ; 
This globe is for my verse a narrow bound : 
Attend me, all ye glorious worlds around ; 
Oh all ye spirits, howsoe'er disjoin'd, 
Of every various order, place, and kind, 
Hear and assist a feeble mortal's lays: 
'Xis your Eternal King 1 strive to praise. 

These verses, and those quoted above, are 
taken out of a manuscript poem on the Last 
Day, which will shortly appear in public. 

To the Guardian. 


' When you speak of the good which would 
Arise from the labours of ingenious men, if they 
could be prevailed upon to turn their thoughts 
upon the sublime subjects of religion, it should, 
methinks, be an attractive to them, if you 
would please to lay before them, that noble 
ideas aggrandise the soul of him who writes 
with a true taste of virtue. I was just now 
reading David's lamentation over Saul and Jo- 
nathan, and that divine piece was peculiarly 
pleasing to me, in that there was such an ex- 
quisite sorrow expressed in it without the least 
allusion to the difficulties from whence David 
was extricated by the fall of those great men 
in his way to empire. When he received the 
tidings of Saul's death, his generous mind has 
in it no reflection upon the merit of the un- 
happy man who was taken out of his way, but 
what raises his sorrow, instead of giving him 

* The beauty of Israel is slain upon thy high 
places : how are the mighty fallen ! 

" Tell it not in Gath, publish it not in the 
streets of Askelon : Lest the daughters of the 
Philistines rejoice, lest the daughters of the 
uncircumcised triumph. 

" Ye mountains of Gilboa, let there be no 
dew, neither let there be rain upon you, nor 
fields of offerings : For there the shield of the 

mighty is vilely cast away, the shield of Saul, 
as though he had not been anointed with oil. 

" Saul and Jonathan were lovely and pleasant 
in their lives, and in their deaths they were not 
divided : they were swifter than eagles, they 
were stronger than lions. 

" Ye daughters of Israel, weep over Saul, 
who clothed you in scarlet, with other delights, 
who put on ornaments of gold upon your ap-- 

' How beautiful is the more amiable and 
noble parts of Saul's character, represented by 
a man whom that very Saul pursued to death ! 
But when he comes to mention Jonathan, the 
sublimity ceases, and not able to mention his 
generous friendship, and the most noble in- 
stances ever given by man, he sinks into a fond- 
ness that will not admit of high language or 
allusions to the greater circumstances of their 
life, and turns only upon their familiar con- 

" I am distressed for thee, my brother Jona- 
than ; very pleasant hast thou been unto me ; 
thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love 
of women." 

' In the mind of this admirable man, gran- 
deur, majesty, and worldly power were despi- 
cable considerations, when he cast his eye upon 
the merit of him who was so suddenly snatched 
from them : And when he began to think of 
the great friendship of Jonathan, his panegeric 
is uttered only in broken exclamations, and 
tender expressions of how much they both loved, 
not how much Jonathan deserved. 

Pray pardon this, which was to hint only 
that the virtue, not the elegance of fine wri- 
ting, is the thing principally to be considered 
by a Guardian. 

' I am Sir, 

* Your humble servant, 

' C. F.' 

No. 52.] Monday, May 11, 1713. 

toto solus in orbe 

Caesar liber erit Luc an. 

Caesar alone, of all mankind, is free. 

I shall not assume to myself the merit of 
every thing in these papers. Wheresoever in 
reading or conversation, I observe any thing 
that is curious and uncommon, useful or en- 
tertaining, I resolve to give it to the public. 
The greatest part of this very paper is an ex- 
tract from a French manuscript, which was 
lent me by my good friend Mr. Charwell. He 
tells me he has had it about these twenty years 
in his possession j and he seems to me to have 
taken from it very many.of the maxims he has 
pursued in the new settlement, I have hereto- 
fore spoken of, upon his lands. He has given 
me full liberty to make what use of it I shall 
think fit : either to publish it entire, or to re- 



[No. 52. 

tad it out by pennyworths. I have determined 
to r- t ul it, and for that end I have translated 
,l n en rendering the words livre, sous, 

ami in uiv others of known signification in 
France, into their equivalent sense, that I may 
the better he understood hy my English readers. 
The hook contains several memoirs concerning 
monsieur Colbert, who had the honour to be 
secretary of state to his most christian majesty, 
and superiutendaut or chief director of the arts 
and manufactures of his kingdom. The pas- 
sage for to-day is as follows: 

' It happened that the king was one day ex- 
pressing his wonder to this minister, that the 
United Provinces should give him so much 
trouble, that so great a monarch as he was 
should not be able to reduce so small a state, 
with half the power of his whole dominions. 
To which monsieur Colbert is said to have made 
the .following answer : 

' Sir, I presume upon your indulgence to 
speak what I have thought upon this subject, 
with that freedom which becomes a faithful 
servant, and one who has nothing more at heart 
than your majesty's glory and the prosperity 
of your whole people. Your territories are 
vastly greater than the United Netherlands ; 
but, sir, it is not land that fights against land, 
but the strength and riches of one nation, 
against the strength and riches of another. I 
should have said only riches, since it is money 
that feeds and clothes the soldier, furnishes 
the magazine, provides the train of artillery, 
and answers the charge of all other military 
preparations. Now the riches of a prince, or 
state, are just so much as they can levy upon 
their subjects, still leaving them sufficient for 
their subsistence. If this 6hall not be left, they 
will desert to other countries for better usage; 
and I am sorry to say it, that too many of your 
majesty's subjects are already among your 
neighbours, in the condition of footmen and 
valets for their daily bread ; many of your ar- 
tisans too are fled from the severity of your 
collectors, they are at this time improving the 
manufactures of your enemies. France has 
lost the benefit of their bands for ever, and 
your majesty all hopes of any future excises 
by their consumption. For the extraordinary 
sums of one year, you have parted with an in- 
heritance. I am never able, without the ut- 
most indignation, to think of that minister, 
who had the confidence to tell your father, his 
subjects were but too happy, that they were 
not yrt reduced to eat grass : as if starving his 
people were the only way to free himself from 
their seditions. Hut people will not starve in 
I'r.»;i( ■<■, as long as bread is to be had in any 
other COUOtry. How much more worthy of a 
pi in. <• was that saying of your grandfather Of 

glorious memory, that be hoped to see that 

day, wheu every house-keeper in his dominions 

should be able to allow his family a capon lor 

their Sunday'3 supper? I lay down this there- 
fore as my first principle, that your taxes upon 
your subjects must leave them sufficient for 
their subsistence, at least as comfortable a 
subsistence as they will find among your neigh- 

4 Upon this principle I shall be able to make 
some comparison between the revenues of your 
majesty, and those of the States-general. Your 
territories are near thirty times as great, your 
people more than four times as many, yet your 
revenues are not thirty, no, nor four times as 
great, nor indeed as great again, as those of 
the United Netherlands. 

' In what one article are you able to raise 
twice as much from your subjects as the states 
can do from theirs? Can you take twice as much 
from the rents of the lands and houses ? What 
are the yearly rents of your whole kingdom ? and 
how much of these will your majesty be able to 
take without ruining the landed interest ? You 
have, sir, above a hundred millions of acres, 
and not above thirteen millions of subjects, 
eight acres to every subject ; how inconsider- 
able must be the value of laud, where so many 
acres are to provide for a single person ! where 
a single person is the whole market for the 
product of so much land ! And what sort of 
customers are your subjects to these lands ? 
what clothes is it that they wear? what pro- 
visions do they consume ? Black bread, onions, 
and other roots, are the usual diet of the ge- 
nerality of your people ; their common drink 
the pure element ; they are dressed in canvass 
and wooden shoes, I mean such of them as are 
not bare-foot, and half- naked. How very mean 
must be the eight acres which will afford no 
better subsistence to a Bingle person ! Yet so 
many of your people live in this despicable 
manner, that four pounds will be easily believed 
to exceed the annual expenses of every one of 
them at a medium. And how little of this 
expense will be coming to the land-owner for 
his rent ? or, which is the same thing, for the 
mere product of his land ? Of every thing that 
is consumed, the greatest part of the value is 
the price of labour that is bestowed upon it ; 
and it is not a very small part of their price 
that is paid to your majesty in your excises. 
Of the four pounds expense of every subject, 
it can hardly be thought that more than four- 
and-twenty shillings are paid for the mere pro- 
duct of the land. Then if there are eight acres 
to every subject, and every subject for his con- 
sumption pays no more than four and twenty 
shillings to the land, three shillings at a medium 
must be the full yearly value of every acre in 
your kingdom. Your lands, separated from 
the buildings, cannot be valued higher. 

' And what then shall be thought the yearly 
value of the houses, or, which is the same thing, 
of the lodgings of your thirteen millions of 
subjects ? What numbers of these are begging 

No. 52.] 



their bread throughout your kingdom ? If your 
majesty were to walk incognito through the 
very streets of your capital, and would give a 
farthing to every beggar that asks you alms 
in a walk of one hour, you would have nothing 
left of a pistole. How miserable must be the 
lodgings of these jwretches ! even those that 
will not ask your charity, are huddled together, 
four or five families in a house. Such is the 
lodging in your capital. That of your other 
towns is yet of less value ; but nothing can be 
more ruinous than the cottages in the villages. 
Six shillings for the lodging of every one of 
your thirteen millions of subjects, at a medium, 
must needs be the full yearly value of all the 
houses. So that at four shillings for every acre, 
and six shillings for the lodging of every subject, 
the rents of your whole kingdom will be less 
than twenty millions, and yet a great deal 
more than they were ever yet found to be by 
the most exact survey that has been taken. 

' The next question then is, how much of 
these rents your majesty will think fit to take 
to your own use ? Six of the twenty millions 
are in the hands of the clergy; and little 
enough for the support of three hundred thou- 
sand ecclesiastics, with all their necessary at- 
tendants ; it is no more than twenty pounds a 
year for every one of the masters. These, sir, 
are your best guards ; they keep your subjects 
loyal in the midst of all their misery. Your 
majesty will not think it your interest to take 
any thing from the church. From that which 
remains in the hands of your lay subjects, will 
you be able to take more than five millions to 
your own use ? This is more than seven shillings 
in the. pound; and then, after necessary re- 
parations, together with losses by the failing 
of tenauts, how very little will be left to the 
owners ! These are gentlemen who have never 
been bred either to trade or manufactures, they 
have no other way of living than by their rents ; 
and when these shall be taken from them, 
they must fly to your armies, as to an hospital, 
for their daily bread. 

' Now sir, your majesty will give me leave 
to examine what are the rents of the United 
Netherlands, and how great a part of these 
their governors may take to themselves, with- 
out oppression of the owners. There are in 
those provinces three millions of acres, and as 
many millions of subjects, a subject for every 
acre. Why should not then the single acre 
there, be as valuable as the eight acres in 
France, since it is to provide for as many 
mouths ? Or if great part of the provisions of 
the people are fetched in by their trade from 
the sea or foreign countries, they will end at 
last in the improvement of their lands. I have 
often heard, and am ready to believe, that 
thirty shillings, one with another, is less than 
the yearly value of every acre in those pro- 

* And how much less than this will be the 
yearly value of lodging for every one of their 
subjects ? There are no beggars in their streets, 
scarce a single one in a whole province. Their 
families in great towns are lodged in palaces, 
in comparison with those of Paris. Even the 
houses in their villages are more sostly than 
in many of your cities. If such is the value of 
their three millions of acres, and of lodging for 
as many millions of subjects, the yearly rents 
of lands and houses are nine millions in those 

' Then how much of this may the States 
take without ruining the land-owners, for the 
defence of their people ? Their lands there, 
by the custom of descending in equal shares 
to all the children, are distributed into so many 
hands, that few or no persons are subsisted by 
their rents ; land-owners, as well as others, are 
chiefly subsisted by trade and manufactures ; 
and they can therefore with as much ease part 
with half of their whole rents, as your majesty's 
subjects can a quarter. The States- general 
may as well take four millions and a half from 
their rents, as your majesty can five from those 
of your subjects. 

' It remains now only to compare the excises 
of both countries. And what excises can your 
majesty hope to receive by the consumption of 
the half-starved, and half-naked beggars in 
your streets ? How great a part of the price of 
all that is eat, or drunk, or consumed by those 
wretched creatures? How great a part of the 
price of canvas cloth and wooden shoes, that 
are every where worn throughout the country? 
How great a part of the price of their water, 
or their black bread and onions, the general 
diet of your people? If your majesty were to 
receive the whole price of those things, your 
exchequer would hardly run over. Vet so much 
the greatest part of your subjects live in this 
despicable manner, that the annual expense of 
every one at a medium, can be no more than 
I have mentioned. One would almost think 
they starve themselves to defraud your majesty 
of your revenues. It is impossible to conceive 
that more than an eighth part can be excised 
from the expenses of your subjects, who live so 
very poorly, and then, for thirteen millions of 
people, your whole revenue by excises will 
amount to no more than six millions and a half. 

' And how much less than this sum will the 
States be able to levy by the same tax upon 
their subjects? There are no beggars in that 
country. The people of their great towns live 
at a vastly greater charge than yours. And 
even those in their villages are better fed and 
clothed than the people of your towns. At a 
medium, every one of their subjects live at 
twice the cost of those of France. Trade and 
manufactures are the things that furnish them 
with money for this expense. Therefore, if 
thrice as much shall be excised from the ex- 



[No. 53 

,,f the HoH ' mil theywill have 

tfl of your majesty, 
tld take nothing at all from 
[ must believe therefore that it will be 
. to levy thrice as much by excises upon 
the Dutch subject as the French, thirty shillings 
upon the former, Bfi easily as ten upon the latter, 
and consequently four millions and a half of 
pounds upon their three millions of subjects ; 
to that in the whole, by rents and excises, they 
will be able to raise nine millions within the 
year. If of this sum, for the maintenance of 
their clergy, which are not so numerous as in 
France, the charge of their civil list, and the 
preservation of their dikes, one million is to be 
deducted ; yet still they will have eight for 
their defence, a revenue equal to two thirds of 
your majesty's. 

' Your majesty will now no longer wonder 
i hat you have not been able to reduce these 
provinces with half the power of your whole 
dominions, yet half is as much as you will be 
ever able to employ against them ; Spain and 
Germany will be always ready to espouse their 
quarrel, their forces will be sufficient to cutout 
work for the other half; and I wish too you 
could be quiet on the side of Italy and England. 
What then is the advice I would presume 
to give your majesty? To disband the greatest 
part of your forces, and save so many taxes 
to your people. Your very dominions make 
vou too powerful to fear any insult from 
your neighbours. To turn your thoughts from 
war, and cultivate the arts of peace, the trade 
and manufactures of your people ; this shall 
make you the most powerful prince, and at 
the same time your subjects the richest of all 
other subjects. In the space of twenty years 
they will be able to give your majesty greater 
sums with ease, than you can now draw from 
them with the greatest difficulty. You have 
abundant materials in your kingdom to employ 
your people, and they do not want capacity to 
he employed. Peace and trade shall carry out 
their labour to all the parts of Europe, and 
bring back yearly treasures to your subjects. 
There will be always fools enough to purchase 
the manufactures of France, though France 
should be prohibited to purchase those of other 
countries. In the mean time your majesty 
shall never want sufficient sums to buy now 
and then an important fortress from one or 
Other of your indigent neighbours. But, above 
all, peace Shall ingratiate your majesty with 
the Spanish nation, during the life of their 
era*} king; and after his death a few season- 
able presents among his courtiers shall pur- 
m of Ins crowns, with all the 
ti. e Indies, and then the world 

must be your own.' 
4 TM f wb a t W as then 

said i... ing was not 

*t all f trended with this libert) af hi minister. 

He knew the value of the man, and soon after 
made him the chief director of the trade and 
manufactures of his people.' 

No. .53.] Tuesday, May 12, 1713. 


Maledicere, malefacta ne noscant s>n. 

To: Prol. act Andr. 
Let them cease to speak ill of others, lest (hey hear of 
their own misdeeds. 

It happens that the letter, which was in one 
of my papers concerning a lady ill treated by 
the Examiner, and to which he replies by tax- 
ing the Tatlerwith the like practice, was writ- 
ten by one Steele, who put his name to the 
collection of papers called Lucubrations. It 
was a wrong thing in the Examiner to go any 
farther than the Guardian for what is said in 
the Guardian; but since Steele owns the letter, 
it is the same thing. I apprehend, by reading 
the Examiner over a second time, that he in- 
sinuates, by the words close to the royal stamp, 
he would have the man turned out of his office. 
Considering he is so malicious, I cannot but 
think Steele has treated him very mercifully 
in his answer, which follows. This Steele is 
certainly a very good sort of a man, and it is a 
thousand pities he does not understand politics ; 
but, if he is turned out, my lady Lizard will 
invite him down to our country-house. I shall 
be very glad of his company, and I'll certainly 
leave something to one of his children. 

To Nestor Ironside, Esq. 
• SIB, 
I am obliged to fly to you for refuge from 
severe usage, which a very great author, the 
Examiner, has been pleased to give me for what 
you have lately published in defeuee of a young 
lady.* He does not put his name to his wri- 
tings, and therefore he ought not to reflect upon 
the characters of those who publicly answer 
for what they have produced. The Examiner 
and the Guardian might have disputed upon 
any particular they had thought fit, without 
having introduced any third person, or making 
any allusions to matters foreign to the subject 
before them. ISnt since he has thought tit, in 
his paper of May the eighth, to defend himself 
by my example, I shall beg leave to say to the 
town ( h\ your favour to me, Mr. Ironside) that 
our conduct would still be very widely different, 
though I should allow that there were particular 
persons pointed at in the places which he 
mentions in theTatlers. When a satirist feigns 
a name, it must be the guilt of the person at- 
tacked, or his being notoriously understood 
guilty before the satire was written, that can 
make him liable to come under the fictitious 
appellation. But when the licence of printing 
letters of people's real names is used, things 

* See Guard. No. 41. 

No. 5S.] 



may be affixed to men's characters which are 
in the utmost degree remote from them. Thus 
it happens in the case of the earl of Nottingham, 
whom that gentleman asserts to have left the 
church ; though nothing is more evident than 
that he deserves better of all men in holy orders, 
or those who have any respect for them, or re- 
ligion itself, thau any man in England can 
pretend to. But as to the instances he gives 
against me : Old Downes is a fine piece of 
raillery, of which I wish I had been author. 
All I had to do in it, was to strike out what 
related to a gentlewoman about the queen, 
whom I thought a woman free from ambition, 
and I did it out of regard to innocence. Powel 
of the Bath is reconciled to me, and has made 
me free of his show. Tun, Gun, and Pistol 
from Wapping, laughed at the representation 
which was made of them, and were observed to 
be more regular in their conduct afterwards. 
The character of Lord Timon is no odious one ; 
and to tell you the truth, Mr. Ironside, when 
I writ it, 1 thought it more like me myself, 
than any other man ; and if I had in my eye any 
illustrious person who had the same faults with 
myself, it is no new, nor very criminal self-love 
to flatter ourselves, that what weaknesses we 
have, we have in common with great men. For 
the exaltation of style, and embellishing the 
character, I made Timon a lord, and he may 
be a very worthy one for all that I have said of 
him. I do not remember the mention of don 
Diego ; nor do I remember that ever I thought 

of lord N m, in any character drawn in 

any one paper of Bickerstaff. Now as to Poly- 
pragmon, I drew it as the most odious image 
I could paint of ambition ; and Polypragnion 
is to men of business what Sir Fopling Flutter 
is to men of fashion. " He's knight of the shire, 
and represents you all." Whosoever seeks 
employment for his own private interest, vanity, 
or pride, and not for the good of his prince and 
country, has his share in the picture of Poly- 
pragnion ; and let this be the rule in examining 
that description, and I believe the Examiner 
will find others to whom he would rather give 
a part of it, than to the person on whom I be- 
lieve be bestows it, because he thinks he is the 
most capable of having his vengeance on me. 
But I say not this from terrors of what any 
man living can do to me : I speak it only to 
show, that I have not, like him, fixed odious 
images on persons, but on vices. Alas, what 
occasion have I to draw people whom I think 
ill of, under feigned names ? I have wanted 
and abounded, and I neither fear poverty, nor 
desire riches ; if that be true, why should I be 
afraid, whenever I see occasion to examine the 
conduct of any of my fellow-subjects ? I should 
scorn to do it but from plain facts, and at my 
own peril, and from instances as clear as the 
day. Thus would I, and I will (whenever I 
think it my duty) inquire into the behaviour of 

any man in England, if he is so posted, as that 
his errors may hurt my country. This kind 
of zeal will expose him who is prompted by it 
to a great deal of ill-will ; and I could carry 
any points I aim at for the improvement of my 
own little affairs, without making myself ob- 
noxious to the resentment of any person or 
party. But, alas ! what is there in all the 
gratifications of sense, the accommodations of 
vanity, or any thing that fortune can give to 
please a human soul, when they are put in 
competition with the interests of truth and 
liberty ? Mr. Ironside, I confess f writ to you 
that letter concerning the young lady of quality, 
and am glad that my awkward apology (as the 
Examiner calls it) has produced in him so much 
remorse as to make " any reparation to offended 
beauty." Though, by the way, the phrase of 
" offended beauty" is romantic, and has little 
of the compunction which should arise in a 
man that is begging pardon of a woman for say- 
ing of her unjustly, that she had affronted " her 
God and her sovereign." However, I will not 
bear hard upon his contrition ; but am now 
heartily sorry I called him a miscreant, that 
word I think signifies an unbeliever. Mescroy- 
ant, I take it, is the old French word. I will 
give myself no manner of liberty to make 
guesses at him, if I may say him: for though 
sometimes I have been told by familiar friends, 
that they saw me such a time talking to the 
Examiner ; others, who have rallied me upon 
the sins of my youth, tell me it is credibly re- 
ported that I have formerly lain with the Ex- 
aminer. I have carried my point, and rescued 
innocence from calumny; and it is nothing to 
me, whether the examiner writes against me 
in the character of an estranged friend* or an 
exasperated mistress.-f- 

He is welcome from henceforward to treat 
me as he pleases : but as you have begun to 
oppose him, never let innocence or merit be 
traduced by him. In particular, I beg of you, 
never let the glory of our nation, J who made 
France tremble, and yet has that gentleness 
to be able to bear opposition from the meanes* 
of his own countrymen, be calumniated in so 
impudent a manner, as in the insinuation that 
he affected a perpetual dictatorship. Let not 
a set of brave, wise, and honest men, who did 
all that has been done to place their queen in 
so great a figure, as to show mercy to the 
highest potentate in Europe, he treated by un- 
generous men as traitors and betrayers. To 
prevent such evils is a care worthy a Guardian. 
These are exercises worthy the spirit of a man, 
and you ought to contemn all the wit in the 
world against you, when you have the conso- 
lation that you act upon these honest motives. 
If you ever shrink from them, get Bat Pigeon 
to comb your noddle, and write sonnets on the 

r. Swift. + Mrs. Manley. J The duke of Marlbcc on/>h. 



[No. 54, 

nllel oltlw Sparkler ; bot never call yourself 
Guardian iDore, in a nation full of the senti- 

4 honour and liberty. 
1 I am, Sir, 

* Your most humble servant. 


1 p. s. 


1 kuow nothing of the letter at Mor- 

No. 54.] Wednesday, May 13, 1713. 

Neqne ita porr6 aut adulates ant artmkratns sum fortuuam 

alterins, ut me mcae paenitcret. TulL 

I never flattered, or admired, another min's fottune, so 
as to be dissatisfied with my own. 

It has been observed very often, in authors 
divine and profane, that we are all equal after 
death, and this by way of consolation for that 
deplorable superiority which some among us 
seem to have over others ; but it would be a 
doctrine of much more comfortable import, to 
establish an equality among the living ; for the 
propagation of which paradox I shall hazard 
the following conceits. 

I must here lay it down, that I do not pre- 
tend to satisfy every barren reader, that all 
persons that have hitherto apprehended them- 
selves extremely miserable shall have imme- 
diate succour from the publication of this 
paper ; but shall endeavour to show that the 
discerning shall be fully convinced of the truth 
of this assertion, and thereby obviate all the 
impertinent accusations of Providence for the 
unequal distribution of good and evil. 

If all men had reflection enough to be sen- 
sible of this equality of happiness ; if they were 
not made uneasy by appearances of superiority ; 
there would be none of that subordination and 
subjection, of those that think themselves less 
happy, to those they think more so, which is 
so very necessary for the support of business 
and pleasure. 

The common turn of human application may 
be divided into love, ambition, and avarice, 
and whatever victories we gain in these our 
particular pursuits, there will always be some 
one or other in the paths we tread, whose su- 
perior happiness will create new uneasiness, 
and employ ns in new contrivances ; and so 
through all degrees there will still remain the 
insatiable desire of some seeming unacquired 
good, to imbitter the possession of whatever 
re accommodated with. And if we 
suppose a man perfectly accommodated, and 

Wim through all the gradations betwixt 
it) and superfluity, we shall find that 

the ilavery which occasioned his first activity, 

(bated, but only diversified. 

Those arc distressed upon such causes 

.is the world alloWl to warrant the keenest 
affliction, are tOO apt. iu tin- comparison of 
lli. ni» IveS with others, to conclude, that where 

there is not a similitude of causes, there cannot 
be of affliction, and forget to relieve themselves 
with this consideration, that the little disap- 
pointments in a life cf pleasure are as terrible 
as those in a life of business ; and if the end of 
one man is to spend his time and money as 
agreeably as he can, that of the other to save 
both, an interruption in either of these pursuits 
is of equal consequence to the pursuers. Be- 
sides, as every trifle raiset h the mirth and gaiety 
of the men of good circumstances, so do others 
as inconsiderable expose them to spleen and 
passion, and as Solomon says, ' according to 
their riches, their anger riseth.' 

One of the most bitter circumstances of 
poverty has been observed to be, that it makes 
men appear ridiculous ; but I believe this affir- 
mation may with more justice be appropriated 
to riches, since more qualifications are re- 
quired to become a great fortune, than even 
to make one ; and there are several pretty 
persons about town, ten times more ridiculous 
upon the very account of a good estate, than 
they possibly could have been with the want 
of it. 

I confess, having a mind to pay my court to 
fortune, I became an adventurer in one of the 
late lotteries ; in which, though I got none of 
the great prizes, I found no occasion to envy 
some of those that did ; comforting myself 
with this contemplation, that nature and edu- 
cation having disappointed all the favours for- 
tune could bestow upon them, they had gained 
no superiority by an unenvied affluence. 

It is pleasant to consider, that whilst we are 
lamenting our particular afflictions to each 
other, and repining at the inequality of con- 
dition, were it possible to throw off our present 
miserable state, we cannot name the person 
whose condition in every particular we would 
embrace and prefer; and an impartial inquiry 
into the pride, ill-nature, ill-health, guilt, 
spleen, or particularity of behaviour of others, 
generally ends in a reconciliation to our dear 

This my way of thinking is warranted by 
Shakspeare in a very extraordinary manner, 
where he makes Richard the Second, when 
deposed and imprisoned, debating a matter, 
which would soon have been discussed by a 
common capacity, Whether his prison or palace 
was most eligible, and with very philosophical 
hesitation leaving the preference undetermined, 
in the following lines : 

Sometimes am [ a kins, 

Then treason makes me wish myself a beggar. 
Ami to Indeed I am. Then crushing penury 
Persuades mo I was belter when a king* 
Then ain 1 klng'd again. 

Prior says very prettily : 

Against our ncacc we arm out will : 
Amidst our plenty something •''till 
For hnrsi B, houses, pictures, planting, 
I '.. ihee, to me, to him ^ wanting. 

No. 54. j 



That cruel something nnpossest 
Corrodes and leavens all the rest. 
That something if we could obtain, 
Would soon create a future pain. 

Give me leave to fortify my unlearned reader 
with another bit of wisdom from Juvenal, by 
Dry den: 

Look round the habitable world, how few 

Know their own good, or, knowing it, pursue! 

How void of reason are our hopes and fears f 

What in the conduct of our life appears 

So well designed, so luckily begun 

But, when we have our wish, we wish undone ! 

Even the men that are distinguished by, and 
envied for their superior good sense and deli- 
cacy of taste, are subject to several uneasinesses 
upon this account, that the men of less pene- 
tration are utter strangers to ; and every little 
absurdity ruffles these fine judgments, which 
would never disturb the peaceful state of the 
less discerning. 

I shall end this essay with the following 
story. There is a gentleman of my acquaint- 
ance, of a fortune which may not on'y be 
called easy, but superfluous; yet this person 
has, by a great deal of reflection, found out a 
method to be as uneasy as the worst circum- 
stances could have made him. By a free life 
he had swelled himself above his natural pro- 
portion, and by a restrained life had shrunk 
below it, and being by nature splenetic, and 
by leisure more so, he began to bewail this his 
loss of flesh (though otherwise in perfect 
health) as a very melancholy diminution. He 
became, therefore, the reverse of Ctesar, and 
as a lean hungry-looked rascal was the delight 
of his eyes, a fat sleek- headed fellow was his 
abomination. To support himself as well as 
he could, he took a servant, for the very rea- 
son every one else would have refused him, for 
being in a deep consumption ; and whilst he 
has compared himself to this creature, and 
with a face of infinite humour contemplated 
the decay of his body, I have seen the master's 
features proportionably rise into a boldness, as 
those of his slave sunk and grew languid. It 
was his interest, therefore, not to suffer the 
too hasty dissolution of a being, upon which 
bis own, in some measure depended. In short, 
the fellow, by a little too much indulgence, 
began to look gay and plump upon his master, 
who, according to Horace, 

Inviuus altcrius tnacrescit 

< opinus, 
Lib. 1. Ep. C. 57, 

Sickens thro' envy at another's good : 

and as he took him only for being in a con- 
sumption, by the same way of thinking, he 
found it absolutely necessary to dismiss him 
for not being in one ; and has told me since, 
that he looks upon it as a very difficult matter, 
to furnish himself with a footman that is not 
altogether as happy as himself. 

No. 55] Thursday, May 14, 1713. 

rtnis enim virtutem amplectitur ipsam, 

Prcemia si tollas? Juv. Sat. x. 141. 

For who would virtue for herself regard, 

Or wed, without the portion of reward ? Dry den. 

It is usual with polemical writers to object 
ill designs to their adversaries. This turns 
their argument into satire, which, instead of 
showing an error in the understanding, tends 
only to expose the morals of those they write 
against. I shall not act after this manner with 
respect to the free-thinkers. Virtue, and the 
happiness of society, are the great ends which 
all men ought to promote; and some of that 
sect would be thought to have at heart above 
the rest of mankind. But supposing those who 
make that profession, to carry on a good design 
in the simplicity of their hearts, and according 
to their best knowledge, yet it is much to be 
feared, those well-meaning souls, while they 
endeavoured to recommend virtue, have in 
reality been advancing the interests of vice; 
which, as I take to proceed from their igno- 
rance of human nature, we may hope, when 
they become sensible of their mistake, they 
will, in consequence of that beneficent principle 
they pretend to act upon, reform their practice 
for the future. 

The sages whom I have in my eye, speak of 
virtue as the most amiable thing in the world; 
but at the same time that they extol her 
beauty, they take care to lessen her portion. 
Such innocent creatures are they, and so great 
strangers to the world, that they think this a 
likely method to increase the number of her 

Virtue has in herself the most engaging 
charms ; and Christianity, as it places her in 
the strongest light, and adorned with all her 
native attractions, so it kindles a new fire in 
the soul, by adding to them the unutterable 
rewards which attend her votaries in an eternal 
state. Or, if there are men of a saturnine and 
heavy complexion, who are not easily lifted up 
by hope, there is the prospect of everlasting 
punishments to agitate their souls, and frighten 
them into the practice of virtue, and an aver- 
sion from vice. 

Whereas your sober free-thinkers tell you, 
that virtue indeed is beautiful, and vice de- 
formed ; the former deserves your love, and 
the latter your abhorrence ; but then it is for 
their own sake, or on account of the good and 
evil which immediately attend them, and are 
inseparable from their respective natures. As 
for the immortality of the soul, or eternal 
punishments and rewards, those are openly ri- 
diculed, or rendered suspicious by the most 
sly and laboured artifice. 

I will not say these men act treacherously 
in the cause of virtue ; but will any one deny, 
that they act foolishly, who pretend to advance 


[No. 56. 

the interest of it by destroying or weakening 
the Strongest motives to it, which are accom- 
tll capacities, and fitted to work 
on all dispositions, and enforcing those alone 
which can affect only a generous and exalted 
mind ! 

Surely they must be destitute of passion 
themselves, and unacquainted with the force 
it hath on the minds of others, who can ima- 
gine that the mere beauty of fortitude, tem- 
perance, and justice, is sufficient to sustain the 
mind of man in a severe course of self-c! nial 
against all the temptations of present profit 
and sensuality. 

It is my opinion that free-thinkers should 
be treated as a set of poor ignorant creatures, 
that have not sense to discover the excellency 
of religion ; it being evident those men are no 
witches, nor likely to be guilty of any deep 
design, who proclaim aloud to the world, that 
they have less motives to honesty than the 
rest of their fellow-suhjects, who have all the 
inducements to the exercise of any virtue which 
a free-thinker can possibly have, and besides, 
the expectation of never-ending happiness or 
misery, as the consequence of their choice. 

Are not men actuated by their passions ? 
and are not hope and fear the most powerful 
of our passions ? and are there any objects 
which can rouse and awaken our hopes and 
fears, like those prospects that warm and pe- 
netrate the heart of a Christian, but are not 
regarded by a free-thinker ? 

It is not only a clear point, that a Christian 
breaks through stronger engagements when- 
ever be surrenders himself to commit a criminal 
action, and is stung with a sharper remorse 
after it than a free-thinker ; but it should even 
seem that a man who believes no future state, 
would act a foolish part in being thoroughly 
honest. For what reason is there why such a 
one should postpone his own private interest, 
or pleasure, to the doing his duty ? If a Chris- 
tian foregoes some present advantage for the 
sake of his conscience, he acts accountably, 
because it is with the view of gaining some 
greater future good: but he that, having no 
such view, should >et conscientiously deny 
himself B present good in any incident where 

ben avt appearances, is altogether as stupid 

BJ be that would trust him at such a juncture. 
It will, perhaps, be said, that virtue is her 
OWn reward, that B natural gratification at- 
tends good actions, which is alone sufficient to 
excite men to tin performance of them. But 

although there is nothing more lovely than 

. and the practice of it is the suresl way 
to sohd natural bappini is, even in this lil , 
mi titles, estates, and fantastical pleasures, 
arc more ardentlj mghl after by most men, 
than the natural gratifications of a reasonable 

mind; and it r.iuuot he denied, that virtue 

and innocence are not always the readiest me- 

thods to attain that sort of happiness. Besides, 
the fumes of passion must be allayed, and rea- 
son must burn brighter than ordinary, to enable 
men to see and relish all the native beauties 
and delights of a virtuous life. And though we 
should grant our free-thinkers to be a set of 
refined spirits, capable only of beingenamoured 
of virtue, yet what would become of the bulk 
of mankind who have gross understandings, 
but lively senses, and strong passions? What 
a deluge of lust, and fraud, and violence, would 
in a little time overflow the whole nation, if 
these wise advocates for morality were univer- 
sally hearkened to ! Lastly, opportunities do 
sometimes offer, in which a man may wickedly 
make his fortune, or indulge a pleasure, with- 
out fear of temporal damage, either in repu- 
tation, health, or fortune. In such cases what 
restraint do they lie under who have no re- 
gards beyond the grave ; the inward compunc- 
tions of a wicked, as well as the joys of an up- 
right mind, being grafted on the sense of an- 
other state ? 

The thought, ' that our existence terminates 
with this life,' doth naturally check the soul in 
any generous pursuit, contract her vitws, and 
fix them on temporary and selfish ends. It de- 
thrones the reason, extinguishes all noble and 
heroic sentiments, and subjects the mind to 
the slavery of every present passion. The wise 
heathens of antiquity were not ignorant of this : 
hence they endeavoured by fables, and conjec- 
tures, and the glimmerings of nature, to possess 
the minds of men with the belief of a future 
state, which has been since brought to light 
by the gospel, and is now most inconsistently 
decried by a few weak men, who would have 
us believe that they promote virtue, by turn- 
ing religion into ridicule. 

No. 56.] Friday, May 15, 1713. 

Quid mentnm traxinse polo, quid proAiit altum 
Erexisse caput 1 pecudum si more pcrcrrant. 

What profits us, that we from heaven derive 
A soul [mm< it. and wiih looks erect 
Snivel the si. us; If, like the brutal kind, 
We follow where our passions lead the way? 

I was considering last night, when I could 
not sleep, how noble a part of the creation 
is designed to be, and how distinguished 
in all bis actions above other earthly creatures, 
from w hence 1 fell to take a view of the change 
and corruption which he has introduced into 
his own condition, the groveling appetites, the 
mean characters of sense, and wild courses of 
passions, that cast him from the degree in 
which Providence had placed him ; the debas- 
ing himself with qualifications not his own; 
and his degenerating into a lower sphere of 
action. This inspired me with a mixture of 
contempt and anger; which, however, was 

No. 56.] 



not so violent as to hinder the return of sleep, 
but grew confused as that came upon me, and 
made me end my reflections with giving man- 
kind the opprobrious names of inconsiderate, 
mad, and foolish. 

Here, methought, where my waking reason 
left the subject, my fancy pursued it in a dream ; 
and I imagined myself in a loud soliloquy of 
passion, railing at my species, and walking 
hard to get rid of the company I despised ; 
when two men who had overheard me, made up 
on either hand. These I observed had many 
features in common which might occasion the 
mistake of one for the other in those to whom 
they appear single ; but I, who saw them to- 
gether, could easily perceive, that though there 
was an air of severity in each, it was tempered 
with a natural sweetness in the one, and by 
turns constrained or ruffled by the designs of 
malice in the other. 

I was at a loss to know the reason of their 
joining, me so briskly ; when he, whose appear- 
ance displeased me most, thus addressed his 
companion : ' Pray, brother, let him alone, and 
we shall immediately see him transformed into 
a tiger.' This struck me with horror, which 
the other perceived, and, pitying my disorder, 
bid me be of good courage, for though I had 
been savage in my treatment of mankind, 
(whom I should rather reform than rail against) 
he would, however, endeavour to rescue me 
from my danger. At this I looked a little 
more cheerful, and while I testified my resig- 
nation to him, we saw the angry brother fling 
away from us in a passion for his disappoint- 
ment. Being now left to my friend, I went 
back with him at his desire, that I might know 
the meaning of those words which had so af- 
frighted me. 

As we went along, ' To inform you,' says 
he, ' with whom you have this adventure, my 
name is Reproof, and his Reproach, both born 
of the same mother ; but of different fathers. 
Truth is our common parent. Friendship, 
who saw her, fell in love with her, and she 
being pleased with him, he begat me upon her ; 
but, a while after, Enmity lying in ambush 
for her, became the father of him whom you 
saw along with me. The temper of our mother 
inclines us to the same sort of business, the 
informing mankind of their faults ; but the 
different complexions of our fathers make us 
differ in our designs and company. I have a 
natural benevolence in my mind which engages 
me with friends ; and he a natural impetuosity 
in his, which casts him among enemies.' 

As he thus discoursed, we came to a place 
where there were three entrances into as many 
several walks, which lay aside of one another. 
We passed into the middlemost, a plain straight 
regular walk, set with trees, which added to 
the beauty of the place, but did not so close 
their boughs over head as to exclude the light 

from it. Here, as we walked, I was made to 
observe, how the road on one hand was full of 
rocks and precipices, over which Reproach 
(who had already gotten thither) was furiously 
driving unhappy wretches : the other side was 
all laid out in gardens of gaudy tulips, amongst 
whose leaves the serpents wreathed, and at the 
end of every grassy walk the enchantress Flat- 
tery was weaving bowers to lull souls asleep in. 
We continued still walking on the middle way, 
till we arrived at a building in which it ter- 
minated. This was formerly erected by Truth 
for a watch-tower, from whence she took a 
view of the earth, and, as she saw occasion, 
sent out Reproof, or even Reproach, for our 
reformation. Over the door I took notice that 
a face was carved with a heart upon the lips 
of it, and presently called to mind that this 
was the ancients' emblem of sincerity. Jn the 
entrance I met with Freedom of Speech and 
Complaisance, who had for a long time looked 
upon one another as enemies ; but Reproof 
has so happily brought them together, that 
they now act as friends and fellow agents in 
the same family. Before I ascended the stairs, 
I had my eyes purified by a water which made 
me see extremely clear ; and I think they said 
it sprung in a pit, from whence (as Demo- 
eritus had reported) they formerly brought up 
Truth, who had hid herself in it. I was then 
admitted to the upper chamber of prospect, 
which was called the Knowledge of Mankind: 
here the window was no sooner opened, but I 
perceived the clouds to roll off and part before 
me, and a scene of all the variety of the world 
presented itself. 

But how different was mankind in this view 
from what it used to appear ! Methought the 
very shape of most of them was lost; some had 
the heads of dogs, others of apes or parrots, and, 
in short, wherever anyone took upon him the 
inferior and unworthy qualities of other crea- 
tures, the change of his soul became visible in 
his countenance. The strutting pride of him 
who is endued with brutality instead of cou- 
rage, made his face shoot out into the form of 
a horse's; his eyes became prominent, his 
nostrils widened, and his wig untying, flowed 
down on one side of his neck in a waving 
mane. The talkativeness of those who love 
the ill-nature of conversation made them turn 
into assemblies of geese, their lips hardened 
to bills by eternal using, they gabbled for 
diversion, they hissed in scandal, and their 
ruffles falling back on their arms, a succession 
of little feathers appeared, which formed wings 
for them to flutter with from one visit to an- 
other. The envious and malicious lay on the 
ground with the heads of different sorts of ser- 
pents ; and not endeavouring to erect them- 
selves, but meditating mischief to others, the} 
sucked the poison of the earth, sharpened their 
tongues to stings upon the stones, and rolled 



[No. 56. 

their trains unperceivably beneath their habits. 
The hypocritical oppressors wore the face cf 
their months were instruments of 
Cruelty, their eyes of deceit; they committed 
wickedness, and bemoaned that there should 
be 10 much of it in the world ; they devoured 
the unwary and wept over the remains of them. 
The covetous had so hooked and worn their 
fingers by counting interest upon interest, 
tli it they were converted to the claws of har- 
pies, and these they still were stretching out 
for more, yet still seemed unsatisfied with their 
acquisitions. The sharpers had the looks of 
eamelions; they every minute changed their 
appearance, and fed on swarms of flies which 
fell as so many cullies amongst them. The 
bully seemed a dunghill cock : he crested well, 
and bore his comb aloft; he was beaten by 
almost every one, yet still sung for triumph; 
and only the mean coward pricked up the ears 
of a hare to fly before him. Critics were turned 
into cats, whose pleasure and grumbling go 
together. Fops were apes in embroidered 
jackets. Flatterers were curled spaniels, fawn- 
ing and crouching. The crafty had the face 
of a fox, the slothful of an ass, the cruel of a 
wolf, the ill-bred of a bear, the lechers were 
goats, and the gluttons swine. Drunkenness 
was the only vice that did not change the face 
of its professors into that of another creature ; 
but this I took to be far from a privilege, for 
these two reasons : — because it sufficiently de- 
forms them of itself, and because none of the 
lower rank of beings is guilty of so foolish an 

As I was taking a view of these representa- 
tions of things without any more order than is 
usual in a dream, or in the confusion of the 
world itself, I perceived a concern within me 
for what I saw. My eyes began to moisten, 
as if the virtue of that water with which they 
were purified was lost for a time, by their being 
touched with that which arose from a passion. 
The clouds immediately began to gather again, 
and close from either hand upon the prospect. 

I then turned towards my guide, who ad- 
dressed himself to me after this manner : ' You 
have seen the condition of mankind when it 
descends from iis dignity; now, therefore, 
guard yourself from that degeneracy by a 
modest greatness of spirit on one side, and a 
conscious shame on the other. Endeavour also 
with a generosity of goodness to make your 
friends aware of it; let them know what de- 
fects you perceive are glowing upon them; 
handle the matter as you see reason, either 
with the airs of severe or humorous affection; 
MM.,, tunc, plaint) desci ibing the degeneracy in 
us lull proper colours, or at other times letting 

them know, that, if tiny proceed as they have 
begun, you give I hem to such a day, or so 
many months, to turn bean, wolves, or foxes, 
&.c. Neither neglect your more n mote ac 

quaintance, where you see any worthy and 
susceptible of admonition. Expose the beasts 
whose qualities you see them putting on, where 
you have no mind to engage with their per- 
sons. The possibility of their applying this is 
very obvious. The Egyptians saw it so clearly, 
that they made the pictures of animals explain 
their minds to one another instead of writing ; 
and, indeed, it is hardly to be missed, since 
yEsop took them out of their mute condition, 
and taught them to speak for themselves with 
relation to the actions of mankind.' 

My guide had thus concluded, and I was 
promising to write down what was shown me 
for the service of the world, when I was awak- 
ened by a zealous old servant of mine, who 
brought me the Examiner, and told me with 
looks full of concern, he was afraid I was in it 

No. 57.] Saturday, May 16, 1713. 

Quam mult.i injusta ac prava fiunt moribus! 

Ter. lleaut. Act. iv. Se. 6. 

How many unjust and wrong tilings are authorised by 
custom .' 

It is of no small concern to me that the in- 
terests of virtue are supplanted by common cus- 
tom and regard for indifferent things. Thus 
mode and fashion defend the most absurd and 
unjust proceedings, and nobody is out of coun- 
tenance for doing what every body practises, 
though at the same time there is no one who 
is not convinced in his own judgment of the 
errors in which he goes on with the multitude. 
My correspondent, who writes me the follow- 
ing letter, has put together a great many points 
which would deserve serious consideration, as 
much as things which at first appearance bear 
a weightier aspect. He recites almost all the 
little arts that are used in the way to matri- 
mony, by the parents of young women. There 
is nothing more common than for people, who 
have good and worthy characters, to run with- 
out respect to the laws of gratitude, into the 
most exorbitant demands for their children, 
upon no other foundation than that which 
should incline them to the quite contrary, the 
unreserved affection of the lover. I shall at 
this time, by inserting my correspondent's let- 
ter, lay such offences before all parents and 
daughters respectively, and reserve the parti- 
cular instances to be considered in future pre- 

1 To Nestor Ironside, Esquire. 
• sin. 
1 I have for some time retired myself from 
the town and business to a little seat, where a 
pleasant campaign country, good roads, and 
healthful air, tempt me often abroad ; and being 
a single man, have contracted more acquaint- 

No. 57.J 



ance than is suitable to my years, or agreeable 
to the intentions of retirement I brought down 
with me hither. Among others, I have a young 
neighbour, who yesterday, imparted to me the 
history of an honourable amour, which has 
been carried on a considerable time with a 
great deal of love on his side, and (as he says 
he has been made to believe) with something 
very unlike aversion on the young lady's. But 
so matters have been contrived, that he could 
never get to know her mind thoroughly. When 
he was first acquainted with her, he might be 
as intimate with her as other people ; but since 
he first declared his passion, he has never beeu 
admitted to wait upon her, or to see her, other 
than in public. If he went to her father's house, 
and desired to visit her, she was either to be 
sick or out of the way, and nobody would come 
near him in two hours, and then he should be 
received as if he had committed some strange 
offence. If he asked her father's leave to visit 
her, the old gentleman was mute. If he put 
it negatively, and asked if he refused it, the 
father would answer with a smile, No, I don't 
say so, neither." If they talked of the for- 
tune, he had considered his circumstances, and 
it every day diminished. If the settlements 
came into debate, he had considered the young 
gentleman's estate, and daily increased his 
expectations. If the mother was consulted, 
she was mightily for the match, but affected 
strangely the showing her cunning in perplexing 
matters. It went off seemingly several times, 
but my young neighbour's passion was such 
that it easily revived upon the least encourage- 
ment given him ; but tired out with writing 
(the only liberty allowed him,) and receiving 
answers at cross purposes, destitute of all 
hopes, he at length wrote a formal adieu ; but 
it was very unfortunately timed, for soon after 
he had the long wished- for opportunity of 
finding her at a distance from her parents. 
Struck with the joyful news, in heat of passion, 
resolute to do any thing rather than leave her, 
down he comes post, directly to the house 
where she was, without any preparatory inter- 
cession after the provocation of an adieu. She, 
in a premeditated anger to show her resent- 
ment, refused to see him. He in a kind of 
fond frenzy, absent from himself, and exas- 
perated into rage, cursed her heartily; but 
returning to himself, was all confusion, repent- 
ance, and submission. But in vain ; the lady 
continued inexorable, and so the affair ended 
in a manner that renders them very unlikely 
ever to meet again. Through the pursuit of 
the whole story (whereof I give but a short 
abstract) my young neighbour appeared so 
touched, and discovered such certain marks of 
unfeigned love, that I cannot but be heartily 
6orry for them both. When he was gone, I 
6at down immediately to my scrutoire, to give 
you the account, whose business, as a Guardian, 

it is to tell your wards what is to be avoided, 
as well as what is fit to be done. And I hum- 
bly propose, that you will, upon this occasion, 
extend your instructions to all sorts of people 
concerned in treaties of this nature, (which of 
all others do most nearly concern human life) 
such as parents, daughters, lovers, and confi- 
dants of both sexes. I desire leave to observe, 
that the mistakes in this courtship (which 
might otherwise probably have succeeded hap- 
pily) seem chiefly these four, viz. 

' 1. The father's close equivocal management, 
so as always to keep a reservation to use upon 
occasion, when he found himself pressed. 

' 2. The mother's affecting to appear ex- 
tremely artful. 

* 3. A notion in the daughter (who is a ladV 
of singular good sense and virtue) that no man 
can love her as he ought, who can deny any 
thing her parents demand. 

' 4. Carrying on the affair by letters and 
confidants, without sufficient interviews. 

' I think you cannot fail obliging many in 
the world, besides my young neighbour and 
me, if you please to give your thoughts upon 
treaties of this nature, wherein all the nobility 
and gentry of this nation (in the unfortunate 
methods marriages are at present in) come at 
one time or other unavoidably to be engaged ; 
especially it is my humble request, you will be 
particular in speaking to the following points, 
to wit, 

' I. Whether honourable love ought to be 
mentioned first to the young lady, or her 
parents ? 

' 2. If to the young lady first, whether a man 
is obliged to comply with all the parents de- 
mand afterwards, under pain of breaking off 
dishonourably ? 

* 3. If to the parents first, whether the lover 
may insist upon what the father pretends to 
give, and refuse to make such settlement as 
must incapacitate him for any thing afterwards, 
without just imputation ef being mercenary, 
or putting a slight upon the lady, by enter- 
taining views upon the contingency of her 
death ? 

' 4. What instructions a mother ought to 
give her daughter upon such occasions, and 
what the old lady's part properly is in such 
treaties, her husband being alive ? 

' 5. How far a young lady is in duty obliged 
to observe her mother's directions, and not to 
receive any letters or messages without her 
knowledge ? 

• 6. How far a daughter is obliged to exert 
the power she has over her lover, for the ease 
and advantage of her father and his family ; 
and how far she may consult and endeavour 
the interest of the family she is to marry into ? 
' 7. How far letters and confidants of both 
sexes may regularly be employed, and whereia 
they are improper ? 




[No. 58. 

' 8. Wben ■ young lady's pen is employed 
about settlements, fortunes, or the like, whe- 
ther it be an affront to give the same answers 
U it it had been in the hand- writing of those 
that instructed her. 

' Lastly, be pleased at your leisure to correct 
that too common way among 1 fathers, of pub- 
lishing in the world, that they will give their 
daughters twice the fortune they really intend, 
and thereby draw young gentlemen, whose 
estates are often in debt, into a dilemma, either 
of crossing a fixed inclination, contracted by a 
long habit of thinking upon the same person, 
and so being miserable that way ; or else be- 
ginning the world under a burden they can 
never get quit of. 

' Thus, sage sir, have I laid before you all 
that does at present occur to me on the im- 
portant subject of marriage ; but before I seal 
up my epistle, I must desire you farther to 
consider, how far treaties of this sort come 
under the head of bargain and sale; whether 
you cannot find out measures to have the whole 
transacted in fairer and more open market 
than at present. How would it become you 
to put the laws in execution against fore- 
stalled, who take up the young things of each 
sex oefore they are exposed to an honest sale, 
or the worth or imperfection of the purchase 
is thoroughly considered ? 

* We mightily want a demand for women in 
these parts. 

' I am, sagacious Sir, 

' Your most obedient and 

1 most humble servant, 

' T. L.' 

No. 58.] Monday, May 18, 1713. 

Ncc ?ibi, scd toll genitnm se credere niunilo. 


Not for himself, but for the world, he lives. 

A public spirit is so great and amiable a 
character, that most people pretend to it, and 
perhaps think they have it in the most ordinary 
occurrences of life. Mrs. Cornelia Lizard buys 
abundance of romances for the encouragement 
of learning; and Mrs. Annabella squanders 
away her money in buying fine clothes, because 
it sets a great many poor people at work. I 
know a gentleman, who drinks vast quantities 
ol ale and October to encourage our own ma- 
nufactures; and another who takes his three 
bottles of Preneh claret every night, because it 
brings a great Custom to the crown. 

1 have been led into this chat, by reading 
some htters upon my paper of Thursday was 

le'nnifbt. Having there acquainted the world, 

that I have, by long contemplation and philo- 
sophy, attained to so great B strength of fancy, 
as to believe every thing to be my own, which 

other people possess only for ostentation ; it 
seems that some persons have taken it in their 
heads, that they are public benefactors to the 
world, while they are only indulging their own 
ambition, or infirmities. My first letter is from 
an ingenious author, who is a great friend to 
his country, because he can get neither victuals 
nor clothes any other way. 

1 To Nestor Ironside, Esq. 
' SIR, 

' Of all the precautions with which you have 
instructed the world, 1 like that best, which is 
upon natural and fantastical pleasure, because 
it falls in very much with my own way of 
thinking. As you receive real delight from 
what creates only imaginary satisfactions in 
others ; so do 1 raise to myself all the conve- 
niences of life by amusing the fancy of the 
world. I am, in a word, a member of that 
numerous tribe, who write for their daily bread. 
1 flourish in a dearth of foreign news ; and 
though I do not pretend to the spleen, I am 
never so well as in the time of a westerly wind. 
When it blows from that auspicious point, I 
raise to myself contributions from the British 
isle, by affrighting my superstitious countrymen 
with printed relations of murders, spirits, pro- 
digies, or monsters. According as my neces- 
sities suggest to me, I hereby provide for my 
being. The last summer I paid a large debt 
for brandy and tobacco, by a wonderful de- 
scription of a fiery dragon, and lived for ten 
days together upon a whale and a mermaid. 
When winter draws near, I generally conjure 
up my spirits, and have my apparitions ready 
against long dark evenings. From November 
last to January, I lived solely upon murders ; 
and have, since that time, had a comfortable 
subsistence from a plague and a famine. I made 
the pope pay for my beef and mutton last Lent, 
out of pure spite to the Romish religion ; and 
at present my good friend the king of Sweden 
finds me in clean linen, and the mufti gets me 
credit at the tavern. 

* The astonishing accounts that I record, I 
usually enliven with wooden cuts, and the like 
paltry embellishments. They administer to the 
curiosity of my fellow-subjects, and not only 
advance religiou and virtue, but take restless 
spirits off from meddling with the public affairs. 
I therefore cannot think myself a useless bur- 
den upon earth; and that I may still do the 
more good in my generation, I shall give the 
world, in a short time, a history of my life, 
studies, maxims, and achievements, provided 
my bookseller advances a round sum for my 
copy. ' I am, Sir, yours.' 

The second is from an old friend of mine in 
the country, who fancies that he is perpetually 
doing good, because he cannot live without 

No. 58J 




* We take thy papers in at the bowling- 
green, where the country gentlemen meet 
every Tuesday, and we look upon thee as a 
comical dog. Sir Harry was hugely pleased at 
thy fancy of growing rich at other folks cost ; 
and for my own part I like my own way of life 
the better since I find I do my neighbours as 
much good as myself. I now smoke my pipe 
with the greater pleasure, because my wife 
says, she likes it well enough at second hand ? 
and drink stale beer the more hardly, because 
unless I will, nobody else does. I design to 
stand for our borough the next election, on 
purpose to make the squire on t'other side, 
tap lustily for the good of our town ; and have 
some thoughts of trying to get knighted, be- 
cause our neighbours take a pride in saying, 
they have been with Sir such, a one. 

* I have a pack of pure slow hounds against 
thou comest into the country, and Nanny, my 
fat doe, shall bleed when we have thee at Haw- 
thorn-hall. Pr'ythee do not keep staring at giljt 
coaches, and stealing necklaces and trinkets 
from people with thy looks. Take my word 
for it, a gallon of my October will do thee more 
good than all thou canst get by fine sights at 
London, which, I'll engage, thou may'st putin 
the shine of thine eye. 

' 1 am, old Iron, 

' thine to command, 


The third is from a lady who is going to 
ruin her family by coaches and liveries, purely 
out of compassion to us poor people that cannot 
go to the price of them. 


' I am a lady of birth and fortune, but never 
knew, till last Thursday, that the splendour 
of my equipage was so beneficial to my country. 
I will not deny that I have drest for some years 
out of the pride of my heart ; but am very glad 
that you have so far settled my conscience in 
that particular, that I can now look upon my 
vanities as so many virtues. Since I am satis- 
fied that my person and garb give pleasure to 
my fellow- creatures, I shall not think the three 
hours business I usually attend at my toilette, 
below the dignity of a rational soul. I am 
content to suffer great torment from my stays, 
that my shape may appear graceful to the 
eyes of others ; and often mortify myself with 
fasting, rather than my fatness should give 
distaste to any man in England. 

' I am making up a rich brocade for the 
benefit of mankind, and design, in a little time, 
to treat the town with a thousand pounds worth 
of jewels. I have ordered my chariot to be 
new painted for your use, and the world's ; and 
have prevailed upon my husband to present 
vou with a pair of fine Flanders mares, by 
driving them every evening round the ring. 

Gay pendants for my ears, a costly cross for 
my neck, a diamond of the best water for my 
finger, shall be purchased at any rate to enrich 
you ; and I am resolved to be a patriot in every 
limb. My husband will not scruple to oblige 
me in these trifles, since I have persuaded him 
from your scheme, that pin money is only so 
much set apart for charitable uses. You see, 
sir, how expensive you are to me, and I hope 
you will esteem me accordingly ; especially 
when I assure you that I am, as far as you can 
see me, ' Entirely yours, 

No. 59.] Tuesday, May 19, 1713. 

Sic honor et nomen divinis vatibus atque 

Carminibus venit ■ 

Hor. Ars Poet. ver. 400. 
So ancient is the pedigree of verse, 
And so divine a poet's function. Roscommon. 

The tragedy of Cato has increased the num- 
ber of my correspondents, but none of them 
can take it ill, that J give the preference to 
the letters which come from a learned body, 
and which on this occasion may not improperly 
be termed the Plausus Academici. The first 
is from my lady Lizard's youngest son, who, 
(as I mentioned in a former precaution) is fel- 
low of All-souls, and applies himself to the study 
of divinity. 

' SIR, 

' I return you thanks for your present of 
Cato : I have read it over several times with 
the greatest attention and pleasure imaginable. 
You desire to know my thoughts of it, and at 
the same time compliment me upon my know- 
ledge of the ancient poets. Perhaps you may 
not allow me to be a good judge of them, when 
1 tell you, that the tragedy of Cato exceeds, 
in my opinion, any of the dramatic pieces of 
the ancients. But these are books I have some 
time since laid by ; being, as you know, engaged 
in the reading of divinity, and conversant 
chiefly in the poetry "of the truly inspired wri- 
ters." I scarce thought any modern tragedy 
could have mixed suitably with such serious 
studies, and little imagined to have found such 
exquisite poetry, much less such exalted sen- 
timents of virtue, in the dramatic performance 
of a eotemporary. 

' How elegant, just, and virtuous is that re- 
flection of Portius ? 

' The ways of heaven are dark and intricate, 
Puzzled in mazes, and perplex'd with errors ; 
Oar understanding traces 'em in vaiu, 
Lost and bevvilder'd in the fruitless search ; 
Nor sees with how much art the windings run, 
Nor where the regular confusion ends. 

* Cato's soliloquy at the beginning of the fifth 
act is inimitable, as indeed is almost every thing 
in the whole play : but what I would observe, 
by particularly pointing at these places is, that 



[No. 59. 

Mich virtuous and moral sentiments were never 

before put into die mouth of a British actor; 

and I jcongratolate my countrymen on the 

thi y bave shown in giving them [as you 

tell mi) such loud and repeated applauses. 
They bare now cleared themselves of the im- 
BOtation which a lale writer had thrown upon 
them in his 502d speculation. Give me leave 
to transcribe his words: — 

'* In the first scene of Terence's p.ay, the 
Self-Tormentor, when one of the old men ac- 
cuses the other of impertinence for interposing 
in his affairs, he answers, ' I am a man and 
cannot help feeling any sorrow that can arrive 
at man.' It is said this sentence was received 
with universal applause. There cannot be a 
greater argument of the general good under- 
standing of a people, than a sudden consent to 
give their approbation of a sentiment which 
has no emotion in it. 

" If it were spoken with never so great skill in 
the actor, the manner of uttering that sentence 
could have nothing in it which could strike any 
but people of the greatest humanity, nay people 
elegant and skilful in observations upon it. It 
is possible he might have laid his hand on his 
breast, and with a winning insinuation in his 
countenance, expressed to his neighbour, that 
he was a man who made his case his own ; yet 
I will engage a player in Covent-garden might 
hit such an attitude a thousand times before 
he would have been regarded.'' * These obser- 
vation; in favour of the Roman people, may 
now be very justly applied to our own nation. 

* Here will I hold. If there's a power above m 

( \ml ( there is, nil natnre cries aloud 
XhroHgh all her works) lie most delight in virtue; 
And that which He deligliis in must be happy. 

This will be allowed, I hope, to be as vir- 
tuous a sentiment as that which he quotes out 
of Terence ; and the general applause with 
which (you say) it was received, must certainly 
make this writer (notwithstanding his great 
assurance in pronouncing upon our ill taste) 
alter his opinion of his countrymen. 

Our poetry, I believe, and not our morals, 
has been generally worse than that of the Ro- 
mans ; for it is plain, when we can equal the 
best dramatic performance of that polite age, 
a British audience may vie with the Roman 
theatre in the virtue of their applauses. 

* However different in other things our opi- 
nions may be, all parties agree in doing honour 
to a man, who is an honour to our country. 

How arc OUr hi arts wanned by this excellent 
ly, with tin' love of liberty, and our con- 

v itution '. llow irresistible is virtue in the cha- 
racter of ( it--! Who would not say with the 

Numidian prince to Marcia, 

• I'll pase tor < v i "ii iiis godlike lather, 
1 1 implanting, one bj < -i •• - . Into mj lift 

bi 'iii I- 1 ■ • lions, nil i tbfcia like him. 

Rome herself received not so great advantages 
from her patriot, as Britain will from this ad- 
mirable representation of him. Our British 
Cato improves our language, as well as our 
morals, nor will it be in the power of tyrants 
to rob us of him, (or to use the last line of an 
epigram to the author) 

" In vain your Cato stabs, he cannot die." 

' 1 am, Sir, 

1 your most obliged 

' humble servant, 
Oxon. All-souls Col. May 6. * WILLIAM LIZARD.' 

' MR. IRONSIDE, Oxon. Christ Church, May 7. 
1 You are, I perceive, a very wary old fellow, 
more cautious than a late brother-writer of 
yours, who at the rehearsal of a new play, 
would at the hazard of his judgment, endeavour 
to prepossess the town in its favour: whereas 
you very prudently waited till the tragedy of 
Cato had gained a universal aud irresistible 
applause, and then with great boldness venture 
to pronounce your opinion of it to be the same 
with that of all mankind. I will leave you to 
consider whether such a conduct becomes a 
Guardian, who ought to point out to us proper 
entertainments, and instruct us when to be- 
stow our applause. However, in so plain a case 
we did not wait for your directions ; and 1 must 
tell you, that none here were earlier or louder 
in their praises of Cato, than we at Christ- 
church. This may, I hope, convince you, that 
we don't deserve the character (which envious 
dull fellows give us) of allowing nobody to have 
wit or parts but those of our own body, espe- 
cially when I let you know that we are many 
of us, Your affectionate 

' humble servants.' 

' To Nestor Ironside, Esq. 
' MR. IRONSIDE, Oxon. Wad. Coll. May 7 

* Were the seat of the muses silent while 
London is so loud in their applause of Cato, 
the university's title to that name might very 
well be suspected ; — in justice therefore to your 
alma mater, let the world know our opinion of 
that tragedy here. 

1 The author's other works had raised our 
expectation of it to a very great height, yet it 
exceeds whatever we could promise ourselves 
from so great a genius. 

1 Caesar will no longer be a hero in our de- 
clamations. This tragedy has at once stripped 
him of all the flattery and false colours, which 
historians and the^ classic authors had thrown 
upon bim, and we shall for the future treat 
him as a murderer of the best patriot of his age, 
and a destroyer of the liberties of his country. 
Cato, as represented in these scenes, will cast a 
blacker shade on the memory of that usurper, 
than the picture of him did upon his triumph. 
Had this finished dramatic p ece appeared some 
hundred vcars ago, Caesar whculd have lost so 

No. 60.] 



many centuries of fame, and monarchs had 
disdained to let themselves be called by his 
name. However it will be an honour to the 
times we live in, to have had such a work pro- 
duced in them, and a pretty speculation for 
posterity to observe, that the tragedy of Cato 
was acted with general applause in 1713. 
[ I am, Sir, 
* your most humble servant, &c. 


1 P. S. The French translation of Cato now 
in the press, will, I hope, be in usum Delphini. 

No. 60.] Wednesday, May 20, 1713. 

Nihil legebat quod non excerperet. Plin. Epist. 

He pick'd something out of every thing he read. 

1 To Nestor Ironside, Esq. 

* SIR, 
* There is nothing in which men deceive 
themselves more ridiculously than in the point 
of reading, and which, as it is commonly prac- 
tised under the notion of improvement, has less 
advantage. The generality of readers who are 
pleased with wandering over a number of books, 
almost atthesame instant, or if confined to one, 
who pursue the author with much hurry and 
impatience to his last page, must without doubt 
be allowed to be notable digesters. This un- 
settled way of reading naturally seduces us into 
as undetermined a manner of thinking, which 
unprofitably fatigues the imagination, when a 
continued chain of thought would probably 
produce inestimable conclusions. Ail authors 
are eligible either for their matter, or style ; if 
for the first, the elucidation and disposition of 
it into proper lights ought to employ a judicious 
reader : if for the last, he ought to observe how 
some common words are started into a new 
signification, how such epithets are beautifully 
reconciled to things that seemed incompatible, 
and must often remember the whole structure 
of a period, because by the least transposition, 
that assemblage of words which is called a style 
becomes utterly annihilated. The swift des- 
patch of common readers not only eludes their 
memory, but betrays their apprehension, when 
the turn of thought and expression would in- 
sensibly grow natural to them, would they but 
give themselves time to receive the impression. 
Suppose we fix one of these readers in his easy 
chair, and observe him passing through a book 
with a grave ruminating face, how ridiculously 
must he look, if we desire him to give an ac- 
count of an author he has just read over ! and 
how unheeded must the general character of it 
be, when given by one of these serene unob- 
servers ! The common defence of these people 
is, that they have no design in reading but for 
pleasure, which I think should rather arise from 

the reflection and remembrance of what one 
has read, than from the transient satisfaction 
of what one does, and we should be pleased 
proportionably as we are profited. It is pro- 
digious arrogance in any one to imagine, that 
by one hasty course through a book he can 
fully enter into the soul and secrets of a writer, 
whose life perhaps has been busied in the birth 
of such production. Books that do not imme- 
diately concern some profession or science, are 
generally run over as mere empty entertain- 
ments, rather than as matter of improvement ; 
though, in my opinion, a refined speculation 
upon morality, or history, requires as much 
time and capacity to collect and digest, as the 
most abstruse treatise of any profession ; and 
I think, besides, there can be no book well 
written, but what must necessarily improve 
the understanding of the reader, even in the 
very profession to which he applies himself. 
For to reason with strength, and express himself 
with propriety, must equally concern the di- 
vine, the physician, and the lawyer. My own 
course of looking into books has occasioned 
these reflections, and the following account 
may suggest more. 

' Having been bred up under a relation that 
had a pretty large study of books, it became 
my province once a week to dust them, In 
the performance of this my duty, as I was 
obliged to take down every particular book, I 
thought there was no way to deceive the toil of 
my journey through the different abodes and 
habitations of these authors but by reading 
something in every one of them ; and in this 
manner to make my passage easy from the 
comely folio in the upper shelf or region, even 
through the crowd of duodecimos in the lower. 
By frequent exercise I became so great a pro- 
ficient in this transitory application to books, 
that I could hold open half a dozen small au- 
thors in a hand, grasping them with as secure 
a dexterity as a drawer doth his glasses, and 
feasting my curious eye with all of them at the 
same instant. Through these methods the 
natural irresolution of my youth was much 
strengthened, and having no leisure, if I had 
had inclination, to make pertinent observa- 
tions in writing, I was thus confirmed a very 
early wanderer. When I was sent to Oxford, 
my chiefest expense run upon books, and my 
only consideration in such expense upon num- 
bers, so that you may be sure I had what they 
call a choice collection, sometimes buying by 
the pound, sometimes by the dozen, at other 
times by the hundred. For the more pleasant 
Use of a multitude of books, I had by frequent 
conferences with an ingenious joiner, contrived 
a machine of an orbicular structure, that had 
its particular receptions for a dozen authors, 
and which, with the least touch of the finger, 
would whirl round, and present the reader at 
once with a delicious view of its full furniture. 



[No. 61. 

Thrice a day did I change, not only the books, 
bat the languages ; and had used my eye to 
sucli a quick succession of objects, that in the 
nod precipitate twirl I could catch a sentence 
out of each author, as it passed fleeting by me. 
Thus my hours, days, and years, flew unpro- 
fitablvaway, but yet were agreeably lengthened 
by being distinguished with this endearing va- 
riety ; and I cannot but think myself very for- 
tunate in my contrivance of this engine, with 
its several new editions and amendments, which 
have contributed so much to the delight of all 
studious vagabonds. When I had been resident 
the usual time at Oxford that gains one ad- 
mission into the public library, I was the hap- 
piest creature on earth, promising to myself 
most delightful travels through this new world 
of literature. Sometimes you might see me 
mounted upon a ladder, in search of some Ara- 
bian manuscripts, which had slept in a certain 
corner undisturbed for many years. Once J 
had the misfortune to fall from this eminence, 
and catching at the chains of the books, was 
seen hanging in a very merry posture, with two 
or three large folios rattling about my neck, 
till the humanity of Mr. Crab* the librarian 
disentangled us. 

' As I always held it necessary to read "in 
public places, by way of ostentation, but could 
cot possibly travel with a library in my pockets, 
I took the following method to gratify this er- 
rantry of mine. I contrived a little pocket- 
book, each leaf of which was a different author, 
so that my wandering was indulged and con- 
cealed within the same inclosure. 

'This extravagant humour, which should 
seem to pronounce me irrecoverable, had the 
contrary effect ; and my hand and eye being 
thus confined to a single book, in a little time 
reconciled me to the perusal of a single author. 
However, I chose such a one as had as little 
connexion as possible, turning to the Proverbs 
of Solomon, where the best instructions are 
thrown together in the most beautiful range 
imaginable, and where I found all that variety 
which I had before sought in so many different 
authors, and which was so necessary to beguile 
my attention. By these proper degrees, I have 
made so glorious a reformation in my studies, 
that I cau keep company with Tully in his most 
extended periods, and work through the con- 
tinned narrations of the most prolix historian. 
I now read nothing without making exact col- 
lections, and shall shortly give the world an 
instance of this in the publication of the fol- 
lowing discourses. The first is a learned con- 
trovci -y about the existence of griffins, in which 
I hope to convince the world, that notwith- 
itandingtuch a mixt creature has been allowed 
by JElian, SolinuSj Mela, and Herodotus, that 
they have been perfectly mistaken in that 

• Fhb i.« nppOMd to bo ;in oblique stroke at Dr. lanticy. 

matter, and shall support myself by the au- 
thority of Albertus, Pliny, Aldrovandus, and 
Matthias Michovius, which two last have clearly 
argued that animal out of the creation. 

' The second is a treatise of sternutation or 
sneezing, with the original custom of saluting 
or blessing upon that motion ; as also with a 
problem from Aristotle, showing why sneezing 
from noon to night was innocent enough, from 
night to noon, extremely unfortunate. 

' The third and most curious is my discourse 
upon the nature of the lake Asphaltites, or 
the lake of Sodom, being a very careful en- 
quiry whether brickbats and iron will swim in 
that lake, and feathers sink ; as Pliny and 
Mandeville have averred. 

' The discussing these difficulties without per 
plexity or prejudice, the labour in collecting 
and collating matters of this nature, will, I 
hope, in a great measure atone for the idle 
hours I have trifled away in matters of less 
importance. I am, Sir, 

' Your humble servant.' 

No . 6 1 .] Thursday , May 21,1713. 

Primaqtie e catde fcrarum 

Incalubse ptUem maculatum sanguine ferrum. 

Ovid. Met. Lib. xv. 106. 
TV essay of bloody feasts on brutes began, 
And alter forg'd the sword to murder man. 


I cannot think it extravagant to imagine, 
that mankind are no less in porportion ac- 
countable for the ill use of their dominion over 
creatures of the lower rank of beings, than for 
the exercise of tyranny over their own species. 
The more entirely the inferior creation is sub- 
mitted to our power, the more answerable we 
should seem ror our mismanagement of it; 
and the rather, as the very condition of nature 
renders these creatures incapable of receiving 
any recompense in another life for their ill 
treatment in this. 

It is observable of those noxious animals, 
which have qualities most powerful to injure 
us, that they naturally avoid mankind, and 
never hurt us unless provoked or necessitated 
by hunger. Man, on the other hand, seeks 
out and pursues even the most inoffensive ani- 
mals, on purpose to persecute and destroy them. 

Montaigne thinks it some reflection upon 
human nature itself, that few people take de- 
light in seeing beasts caress or play together, 
but almost every one is pleased to see them 
lacerate and worry one another. I am sorry 
this temper is become almost a distinguishing 
character of our own nation, from the obser- 
vation which is made by foreigners of our be- 
loved pastimes, bear-baiting, cock-fighting, and 
the like. We should find it hard to vindicate 
the destroying of any thing that has life, merely 
out of wantonness ; yet in this principle our 

No. 61 .J 



children are bred up, and one of the first plea- 
sures we allow them is the licence of inflicting 
pain upon poor animals; almost as soon as we 
are sensible what life is ourselves, we make it 
our sport to take it from other creatures. I 
cannot but believe a very good use might be 
made of the fancy which children have for 
birds and insects. Mr. Locke takes notice of 
a mother who permitted them to her children, 
but rewarded or punished them as they treated 
them well or ill. This was no other than en- 
tering them betimes into a daily exercise of 
humanity, and improving their very diversion 
to a virtue. 

I fancy too, some advantage might be taken 
of the common notion, that it is ominous or 
unlucky to destroy some sorts of birds, as swal- 
lows or martins ; this opinion might possibly 
arise from the confidence these birds seem to 
put in us by building under our roofs, so that 
it is a kind of violation of the laws of hospi- 
tality to murder them. As for robin-red- 
breasts in particular, it is not improbable they 
owe their security to the old ballad of the 
Children in the Wood. However it be, I do 
not know, I say, why this prejudice, well im- 
proved and carried as far as it would go, might 
not be made to conduce to the preservation of 
many innocent creatures, which are now ex- 
posed to all the wantonness of an ignorant 

There are other animals that have the mis- 
fortune, for no manner of reason, to be treated 
as common enemies wherever found. The con- 
ceit that a cat has nine lives, has cost at least 
nine lives in ten of the whole race of them. 
Scarce a boy in the streets but has in this 
point outdone Hercules himself, who was 
famous for killing a monster that had but 
three lives. Whether the unaccountable ani- 
mosity against this useful domestic may be 
any cause of the general persecution of owls, 
(who are a sort of feathered cats,) or whether 
it be only an unreasonable pique the moderns 
have taken to a serious countenance, I shall 
not determine, though [ am inclined to be- 
lieve the former ; since I observe the sole rea- 
son alleged for the destruction of frogs, is 
because they are like toads. Vet amidst all 
the misfortunes of these unfriended creatures, 
it is some happiness that we have not yet taken 
a fancy to eat them : for should our country- 
men refine upon the French never so little, it 
is not to be conceived to what unheard-of 
torments owls, cats, and frogs may be yet 

When we grow up to men, we have another 
succession of sanguinary sports ; in particular 
hunting. I dare not attack a diversion which 
has such authority and custom to support it ; 
but must have leave to be of opinion, that the 
agitation of that exercise, with the example 
and number of the chasers, not a little contri- 

bute to resist those checks, which compassion 
would naturally suggest in behalf of the animal 
pursued. Nor shall I say with monsieur Fleury, 
that this sport is a remain of the Gothic bar- 
barity. But I must animadvert upon a certain 
custom yet in use with us, and barbarous 
enough to be derived from the Goths, or even 
the Scythians ; I mean that savage compli- 
ment our huntsmen pass upon ladies of quality, 
who are present at the death of a stag, when 
they put the knife in their hands to cut the 
throat of a helpless, trembling, and weeping 

' Questuque cruentus, 

Atque imploranti similis. 

' That lies beneath the knife, 

Looks up, and from her butcher begs her life.' 

But if our sports are destructive, our glut- 
tony is more so, and in a more inhuman man- 
ner. Lobsters roasted alive, pigs whipt to 
death, fowls sewed up, are testimonies of our 
outrageous luxury. Those who (as Seneca ex- 
presses it) divide their lives betwixt an anxious 
conscience and a nauseated stomach, have a 
just reward of their gluttony in the diseases it 
^brings with it; for human savages, like other 
wild beasts, find snares and poison in the pro- 
visions of life, and are allured by their appetite 
to their destruction. I know nothing more 
shocking or horrid than the prospect of one 
of their kitchens covered with blood, and filled 
with the cries of creatures expiring in tortures. 
It gives one an image of a giant's den in a 
romance, bestrewed with the scattered heads 
and mangled limbs of those who were slain by 
his cruelty. 

The excellent Plutarch (who has more strokes 
of good-nature in his writings than I remember 
in any author) cites a saying of Cato to this 
effect, '■' That it is no easy task to preach to 
the belly, which has no ears." * Yet if,' says 
he, 4 we are ashamed to be so out of fashion 
as not to offend, let us at least offend with 
some discretion and measure. If we kill an 
animal for our provision, let us do it with the 
meltings of compassion, and without torment- 
ing it. Let us consider, that it is in its own 
nature cruelty to put a living creature to death ; 
we at least destroy a soul that has sense and 
perception.' — In the life of Cato the Censor, 
he takes occasion, from the severe disposition 
of that man, to discourse in this manner: * It 
ought to be esteemed a happiness to mankind, 
that our humanity has a wider sphere to exert 
itself in than bare justice. It is no more than 
the obligation of our very birth to practise 
equity to our own kind ; but humanity may 
be extended through the whole order of crea- 
tures, even to the meanest. Such actions of 
charity are the overflowings of a mild good- 
nature on all below us. It is certainly the 
part of a well-natured man to take care of his 
horses and dogs, not only in expectation of 



[No. 61 

their labour while they are foals and whelps, 
but even when their old age has made them 
JQpayMt of service.' 

History tells UM of a wise and polite nation, 
that rejected ■ person of the first quality, who 
stood for a judiciary office, only because he 
had been observed in his youth to take plea- 
sure in tearing and murdering of birds. And 
of another that expelled a man out of the 
senate, for dashing a bird against the ground 
which had taken shelter in his bosom. Every 
one knows how remarkable the Turks are for 
their humanity in this kind I remember an 
Arabian author, who has written a treatise to 
show, how far a man, supposed to have subsisted 
in a desert island, without any instruction, or 
so much as the sight of any other man, may, 
by the pure light of nature, attain the know- 
ledge of philosophy and virtue. One of the 
first things he makes him observe is, that uni- 
versal benevolence of nature in the protection 
and preservation of its creatures. In imitation 
of which the first act of virtue he thinks his 
self-taught philosopher would of course fall 
into is, to relieve and assist all the animals 
about him in their wants and distresses. 

Ovid has some very tender and pathetic lines 
applicable to this occasion : 

Quid mcruistfe, oves y placidum pecus, inque tegendos 
Natum homines, pleno quae fertis in uberc nectar ? 
Mollia quas nobis vestras velamina lanas 
Praebctis ; vitaque magis quart) morte juvatis. 
Quid meruere boves, animal sine fraude dolisque, 
Innocnnm, simplex, natum tolcrare labores? 
Immemor est demum, nee frugum muncre digitus, 
Qui potuit, curvi dempto modo pondere aratri, 
Ruricolam mactare suum Met. Lib. xv. 116. 

Quam maid consnevit, quam se parat illc cruori 
Impius liumano, vituli qui gutttna cultro 
Rumpit, et immotas ptrcbet mugitibus ames! 
Aut qui vagitus similes puerilibus ltccdum 
1 '.<!> ntcm jugulare potest .' lb. ver. 463. 

The sheep was sacrifie'd on no pretence, 

Bttl meek and unresisting innocence. 

A patient, useful craatare, bom to beat 

The warm and woolly fleece, that cloth'd her murderer ; 

And daily to give down the milk she bred, 

A tribute for the grass on which she led. 

Living, both food and raiment she supplies, 

And is of least advantage when she dies. 

How did the toiling ox his death deserve J 

A downright simple drudge, and born to serve? 
tyrant ! with what justice canst thou hope 

The promise of the year, a plenteous crop; 
w in ii thou destroy'st thy lab'riug steer, who tiird, 
And plongh'd with pains, thy else ungrateful field .' 
From in* \< t re< king neck to draw tin- yoke, 

3 neck, with which the surly clods he broke : 
And to the hatchet yield thy husbandman, 

win. iiiii-h'd aotamn, and the spring began f more advance r,<n mortals nuke in sin 
• s " M ii 1" i fo lion, who with blood hi '^in { 

the calf thai lies beneath the Itnife, 

up, in i ii .in her batcher begs bei life : 
i 'i ii to the harmless kni, thai ere he dies, 
Ail Di ire thy mere; tries, 

And mill ites In v.iiu the children's cries; Drytleiu 

Perhaps t ■ . 1 1 \ \ or civ so nearly resem- 
bling the li'imaii, which Providence has 

endued so many different animals, might pur- 
posely be given them to move our pity, and 
prevent those cruelties we are too apt to inflict 
on our fellow-creatures. 

There is a passage in the book of Jonas, 
when God declares his unwillingness to destroy 
Nineveh, where methinks that compassion of 
the Creator, which extends to the meanest rank 
of his creatures, is expressed with wonderful 

tenderness. ' Should 1 not spare Nineveh, 

that great city, wherein are more than six 

score thousand persons and also much 

cattle?' And we have in Deuteronomy a pre- 
cept of great good-nature of this sort, with a 
blessing in form annexed to it, in those words ; 

If thou shalt find a bird's nest in the way, 
thou shalt not take the dam with the young 
But thou shalt in anywise let the dam go ; 
that it may be well with thee, and that thou 
may'st prolong thy days.' 

To conclude, there is certainly a degree of 
gratitude owing to those animals that serve us. 
As for such as are mortal or noxious, we have 
a right to destroy them ; and for those that 
are neither of advantage or prejudice to us, 
the common enjoyment of life is what 1 cannot 
think we ought to deprive them of. 

This whole matter with regard to each of 
these considerations, is set in a very agreeable 
light in one of the Persian fables of Pilpay, 
with which I shall end this paper. 

A traveller passing through a thicket, and 
seeing a few sparks of a fire, which some pas- 
sengers had kindled as they went that way 
before, made up to it. On a sudden the sparks 
caught hold of a bush in the midst of which 
lay an adder, and set it in flames. The adder 
entreated the traveller's assistance, who tying 
a bag to the end of his staff, reached it, and 
drew him out : he then bid him go where he 
pleased, but never more be hurtful to men, 
since he owed his life to a man's compassion. 
The adder, however, prepared to sting him, 
and when he expostulated how unjust it was to 
retaliate good with evil, * I shall do no more,' 
said the adder, ' than what you men practise 
every day, whose custom it is to requite bene- 
fits with ingratitude. If you cannot deny this 
truth, let us refer it to the first we meet.' The 
man consented, and seeing a tree, put the 
question to it, in what manner a good turn 
was to be recompensed? ' If you mean ac- 
cording to the usage of men,' replied the tree, 

by its contrary : I have been standing here 
these hundred years to protect them from the 
scorching sun, and in requital they have cut 
down my branches, and are going to saw my 
body into planks.' Upon this, the adder in- 
sulting the man, he appealed to a second evi- 
dence, which was granted, and immediately 
they met a cow. The same demand was made, 
and much the same answer given, that among 
men it was certainly so. * I know it,' snid 

No. 62.] 



the cow, ' by woful experience; for I have 
served a man this long time with milk, butter, 
and cheese, and brought him besides a calf 
every year ; but now I am old, he turns me 
into this pasture with design to sell me to a 
butcher, who will shortly make an end of me.' 
The traveller upon this stood confounded, but 
desired, of courtesy, one trial more, to be 
finally judged by the next beast they should 
meet. This happened to be the fox, who, 
upon hearing the story in all its circumstances, 
could not be persuaded it was possible for the 
adder to enter in so narrow a bag. The 
adder, to convince him, went in again ; when 
the fox told the man he had now his enemy in 
his power, and with that he fastened the bag, 
and crushed him to pieces. 

No. 62.] Friday, May 22, 1713. 

O forfnnatos mmium, sua si bona n&rint ! 

Firg. Georg. ii. 458.» 

Too happy, if they knew their happy state. 

Upon the late election of king's scholars, 
my curiosity drew me to Westminster school. 
The sight of a place where I had not been for 
many years, revived in my thoughts the tender 
images of my childhood, which by a great 
length of time had contracted a softness that 
rendered them inexpressibly agreeable. As it 
is usual with me to draw a secret unenvied 
pleasure from a thousand incidents overlooked 
by other men, 1 threw myself into a short 
transport, forgetting my age, and fancying 
mjself a school-boy. 

This imagination was strongly favoured by 
the presence of so many young boys, in whose 
looks were legible the sprightly passions of 
that age, which raised in me a sort of sympathy. 
Warm blood thrilled through every vein ; the 
faded memory of those enjoyments that once 
gave me pleasure put on more lively colours, 
and a thousand gay amusements filled my 

It was not without regret, that I was for- 
saken by this waking dream. The cheapness 
of puerile delights, the guiltless joy they leave 
upon the mind, the blooming hopes that lift 
up the soul in the ascent of life, the pleasure 
that attends the gradual opening of the ima- 
gination, and the dawn of reason, made me 
think most men found that stage the most 
agreeable part of their journey. 

When men come to riper years, the inno- 
cent diversions which exalted the spirits and 
produced health of body, indolence of mind, 
and refreshing slumbers, are too often ex- 
changed for criminal delights, which fill the 
soul with anguish, and the body with disease. 
The grateful employment of admiring and 
raising themselves to an imitation of the polite 
style, beautiful images, and noble sentiments 

of ancient authors, is abandoned for law-latin, 
the lucubrations of our paltry news-mongers, 
and that swarm of vile pamphlets, which cor- 
rupt our taste, and infest the public. The 
ideas of virtue which the characters of heroes 
had imprinted on their minds, insensibly wear 
out, and they come to be influenced by the 
nearer examples of a degenerate age. 

In the morning of life, when the soul first 
makes her entrance into the world, all things 
look fresh and gay; their novelty surprises, 
and every little glitter or gaudy colour trans- 
ports the stranger. But by degrees the sense 
grows callous, and we lose that exquisite relish 
of trifles by the time our minds should be 
supposed ripe for rational entertainments. I 
cannot make this reflection without being 
touched with a commiseration of that species 
called beaus, the happiness of those men neces- 
sarily terminating with their childhood; who, 
from a want of knowing other pursuits, con- 
tinue a fondness for the delights of that age, 
after the relish of them is decayed. 

Providence hath with a bountiful hand pre- 
pared variety of pleasures for the various stages 
of life. It behoves us not to be wanting to 
ourselves, in forwarding the intention of na- 
ture, by the culture of our minds, and a due 
preparation of each faculty for the enjoyment 
of those objects it is capable of being affected 

As our parts open and display by gentle de- 
grees, we rise from the gratifications of sense, 
to relish those of the mind. In the scale of 
pleasure, the lowest are sensual delights, which 
are succeeded by the more enlarged views and 
gay portraitures of a lively imagination ; and 
these give way to the sublimer pleasures of 
reason, which discover the causes and designs, 
the frame, connexion, and symmetry of things, 
and fills the mind with the contemplation of 
intellectual beauty, order, and truth. 

Hence I regard our public schools and uni- 
versities, not only as nurseries of men for the 
service of the church and state, but also as 
places designed to teach mankind the most 
refined luxury, to raise the mind to its due 
perfection, and give it a taste for those en- 
tertainments which afford the highest trans- 
port, without the grossness or remorse that 
attend vulgar enjoyments. 

In those blessed retreats men enjoy the 
sweets of solitude, and yet converse with the 
greatest genii that have appeared in every age, 
wander through the delightful mazes of every 
art and science, and as they gradually enlarge 
their sphere of knowledge, at once rejoice in 
their present possessions, and are animated by 
the boundless prospect of future discoveries. 
There, a generous emulation, a noble thirst of 
fame, a love of truth and honourable regards, 
reign in minds as yet untainted from the world. 
There, the stock of learning transmitted down 



[No. 6$. 

from the indents, il preserved, and receives a 
dail) increase j sod it is thence propagated by 
men, who, having finished their studies, go 
uit.i the world, and spread that general know- 
and good taste throughout the land, 
which is so distant from the barbarism of its 
ancient inhabitants, or the fierce genius of its 
invaders. And as it is evident that our lite- 
rature is owing to the schools and universities, 
so it cannot be denied that these are owing to 
our religion. 

Jt was chiefly, if not altogether, upon reli- 
gious considerations that princes, as well as 
private persons, have erected colleges, and 
assigned liberal endowments to students and 
professors. Upon the same account they meet 
with encouragement and protection from all 
Christiau states, as being esteemed a necessary 
means to have the sacred oracles and primitive 
traditions of Christianity preserved and under- 
stood. And it is well known, that after a long 
night of ignorance and superstition, the re- 
formation of the church and that of learning 
began together, and made proportionable ad- 
vances, the latter having been the effect of the 
former, which of course engaged men in the 
study of the learned languages, and of anti- 

Or, if a free-thinker is ignorant of these facts, 
he may be convinced from the manifest reason 
of the thing. Is it not plain that our skill in 
literature is owing to the knowledge of Greek 
and Latin, which, that they are still preserved 
among us, can be ascribed only to a religious 
regard ? What else should be the cause why 
the youth of Christendom, a,bove the rest of 
mankind, are educated in the painful study of 
those dead languages; and that religious so- 
cieties should peculiarly be employed in acquir- 
ing that sort of knowledge, and teaching it to 
others ? 

And it is more than probable, that in case 
our free-thinkers could once achieve their 
glorious design of sinking the credit of the 
Christian religion, and causing those revenues 
to be withdrawn which their wiser forefathers 
had appointed to the support and encourage- 
ment of its teachers, in a little time the Shaster 
would be as intelligible as the Greek Testa- 
ment ; and we, who want that spirit and curio- 
sity which distinguished the ancient Grecians, 
would by degrees relapse into the same state 
of barbarism which overspread the northern 
nations, before they were enlightened by Chris- 

Some perhaps, from the ill-tendency and vile 

which appear in their writings, may sus- 

that the free-thinkers are carrying on a 

malwiou-; design against the belles lettres: for 

my part, I rather con, civ,, them BJ unthinking 

Wretches, Of short riewi and narrow capacities, 

who an not able to penetrate into the causes 
or consequence! of things. 

No. 6;-. J Saturday, May '.'J, 1713. 

Ztu iruTsz, «*Mi c~j fS<ro(( tir' r\i(o; via; 'A^suwu, 

Tloir\TW, $' ati&fYpi, Joy 6' o<f>6a>.juo»(riv Uicicu, 

'Ev Si <paet xao oXe<r<rov. Horn. II. xvii. G45. 

O King ! O Fathei ! hear my humble prayi I : 

Dispel this cloud, the light of heaven rest 

Give me t<> see, and Ajas asks no more : 

If Greece must perish, we thy will obey. 

But let in polish in the face of da] .' Pope. 

I am obliged, for many reasons, to insert 
this first letter, though it takes me out of my 
way, especially on a Saturday ; but the ribaldrv 
of some part of that will be abundantly made 
up by the quotation in the second. 

' To Nestor Ironside, Esquire. 

« SIR, Friday, May 28, 1713. 

' The Examiner of this day consists of reflec- 
tions upon the letter I writ to you, published 
in yours of the twelfth instant. The sentence 
upon which he spends most of his invectives, 
is this, " I will give myself no manner of liberty 
to make guesses at him, if I may say him, 
for though sometimes I have been told by fami- 
liar friends, that they saw me such a time 
taking to the Examiner: others who have 
rallied me upon the sins of my youth, tell me 
it is credibly reported that I have formerly lain 
with the Examiner." 

* Now, Mr. Ironside, what was there in all 
this but saying, " I cannot tell what to do in 
this case. There has been named for this 
paper, one for whom 1 have a value, and another 
whom I cannot but neglect?" I have named 
no man, but if there be any gentleman who 
wrongfully lies under the imputation of being 
or assisting the Examiner, he would do well 
to do himself justice, under his own hand, in 
the eye of the world. As to the exasperated 
mistress, the Examiner demands in her behalf, 
a " reparation for offended innocence." This 
is pleasant language, when spoken of this per- 
son ; he wants to have me unsay what he 
makes me to have said before. I declare then 
it was a false report, which was spread con- 
cerning me and a lady, sometimes reputed the 
author of the Examiner ; and I can now make 
her no reparation, but in begging her pardon, 
that I never lay with her. 

' I speak all this only in regard to the Exa- 
miner's offended innocence, and will make no 
reply as to what relates merely to myself. 
I have said before, " he is welcome from hence- 
forward, to treat me as he pleases." But the 
bit of Greek, which I intreat you to put at 
the front of to-morrow's paper, speaks all my 
sense on this occasion. It is a speech put in 
the mouth of Ajax, who is engaged in the dark : 
He cries out to Jupiter, " Give me but day- 
light, let me but see my foe, and let him de- 
stroy me if he can." 

' But when he repeats his story of the " ge- 
neral for life," I cannot hear him with so much 

No. 6S.J 



patience. He may insinuate what he pleases 
to the ministry of me; but I am sure I could 
not, if I would, by detraction, do them more 
injury, than he does by his ill-placed, ignorant, 
nauseous flattery. One of them, whose talent 
is address, and skill in the world, he calls Cato ; 
another, whose praise is conversation-wit and 
a taste of pleasures, is also Cato. Can any 
thing in nature be more out of character, or 
more expose those whom he would recommend 
to the raillery of his adversaries, than compar- 
ing these to Cato ? But gentlemen of their 
eminence are to be treated with respect, and 
not to suffer because a sycophant has applaud- 
ed them in a wrong place. 

' As much as he says I am in defiance with 
those in present power, I will lay before them 
one point that would do them more honour 
than any one circumstance in their whole ad- 
ministration ; which is, to show their resent- 
ment of the Examiner's nauseous applause of 
themselves, and licentious calumny of their 
predecessors. Till they do themselves that 
justice, men of sense will believe they are 
pleased with the adulation of a prostitute, who 
heaps upon them injudicious applauses, for 
which he makes way by random abuses upon 
those who are in present possession of all that 
is laudable. 

' I am, Sir, 

* your most humble servant, 



To Mr. Ironside. 

' A mind so well qualified as yours, must re- 
ceive every day large improvements, when 
exercised upon such truths which are the glory 
of our natures ; such as those which lead us 
to an endless happiness in our life succeeding 
this. I herewith send you Dr. Lucas's Practi- 
cal Christianity, for your serious perusal. If 
you have already read it, I desire you would 
give it to one of your friends who has not. 
I think you cannot recommend it better than 
in inserting by way of specimen these passages 
which I point to you, as follows: — 

" That I have, in this state I am now in, a 
soul as well as a body, whose interest concerns 
me, is a truth my sense sufficiently discovers : 
For I feel joys and sorrows, which do not make 
their abode in the organs of the body, but in 
the inmost recesses of the mind ; pains and 
pleasures which sense is too gross and heavy to 
partake of, as the peace or trouble of conscience 
in the reflection upon good or evil actions, the 
delight or vexation of the mind, in the contem- 
plation of, or a fruitless enquiry after, excellent 
and important truths. 

'* And since I have such a soul capable of 
happiness or misery, it naturally follows, that 
it were sottish and unreasonable to lose this 
soul for the gain of the whole world. For my 
soul is I myself, and if that be miserable, I 

must needs be so. Outward circumstances of 
fortune may give the world occasion to think 
me happy, but they can never make me so. 
Shall I call myself happy, if discontent and 
sorrow eat out the life and spirit of my soul ? 
if lusts and passions riot and mutiny in my 
bosom ? if my sins scatter an uneasy shame all 
over me, and my guilt appals and frights me ? 
What avails it me, that my rooms are stately, 
my tables full, my attendants numerous, and 
my attire gaudy, if all this while my very being 
pines and languishes away ? These indeed are 
rich and pleasant things, but I nevertheless 
am a poor and miserable man. Therefore I 
conclude, that whatever this thing be I call a 
soul, though it were a perishing, dying thing, 
and would not outlive the body, yet it were 
my wisdom and interest to prefer its content 
and satisfaction before all the world, unless I 
could choose to be miserable, and delight to be 

" This very consideration, supposing the un- 
certainty of another world, would yet strongly 
engage me to the service of religion ; for all it 
aims at, is to banish sin out of the world, which 
is the source and original of all the troubles 
that disquiet the mind; 1st. Sin in its very es- 
sence, is nothing else but disordered, distem- 
pered passions, affections foolish and prepos- 
terous in their choice, or wild and extravagant 
in their proportion, which our own experience 
sufficiently convinces us to be painful and un- 
easy. 2d. It engages us in desperate hazards, 
wearies us with daily toils, and often buries us 
in the ruins we bring upon ourselves ; and 
lastly, it fills our hearts with distrust, and fear, 
and shame ; for we shall never be able to per- 
suade ourselves fully, that there is no difference 
between good and evil ; that there is no God, 
or none that concerns himself at the actions 
of this life : and if we cannot, we can never 
rid ourselves of the pangs and stings of a trou- 
bled conscience ; we shall never be able to es- 
tablish a peace and calm in our bosoms ; and 
so enjoy our pleasure with a clear and unin- 
terrupted freedom. But if we could persuade 
ourselves into the utmost height of atheism, 
yet still we shall be under these two strange 
inconveniences : 1st. That a life of sin will be 
still irregular and disorderly, and therefore 
troublesome : 2d. That we shall have dismantled 
our souls of their greatest strength, dis- 
armed them of that faith which only can sup- 
port them under the afflictions of this present 

No. 64.] Monday, May 25, 1713. 

-Levium spectacula rerr. 

Viva. Georg. iv. 3. 

Trifles set out to shew. 

I am told by several persons whom I have 
taken into my ward, that it is to their great 



[No. 64. 

damage I bave digressed so much of late from 
the- Datura! course of my precautious. They 
1mm addressed and petitioned me with appel- 
lations and titles, which admonish me to he 
that sort of patron which they want me to be, 

1 To Nestor Ironside, Esq. Patron of the 

* The bumble petition of John Longbottom, 
Charles Lilly, Bat. Pidgeon, and J. Nor- 
wood, capital artificers, most humbly 

' That your petitioners behold with great 
sorrow, your honour employing 1 your important 
moments in remedying matters which nothing 
but time can cure, and which do not so imme- 
diately, or at least so professedly, appertain to 
your office, as do the concerns of us your peti- 
tioners, and other handicraft persons, who excel 
in their different and respective dexterities. 

That as all mechanics are employed in ac- 
commodating the dwellings, clothing the per- 
sons, or preparing the diet of mankind, your 
petitioners ought to be placed first in your 
guardianship, as being useful in a degree su- 
perior to all other workmen, and as being wholly 
conversant in clearing and adorning the head 
of man. 

' That the said Longbottom, above all the 
rest of mankind, is skilful in taking off that 
horrid excrescence on the chins of all males, 
and casting, by the touch of his hand, a cheer- 
fulness where that excrescence grew ; an art 
known only to this your artificer. 

' That Charles Lilly prepares snuff and per- 
fumes which refreshes the brain in those that 
have too much for their quiet, and gladdens it 
in those who have too little to know their want 
of it. 

'That Bat. Pidgeon cuts the luxuriant locks 
growing from the upper part of the head, in 
so artful a manner, with regard to the visage, 
that he makes the ringlets, falling by the tem- 
ple-,, conspire with the brows and lashes of the 
eye, to heighten the expressions of modesty 
and intimations of goodwill, which are most 
infallibly communicated by ocular glances. 

That J. Norwood forms periw igs with respect 
iu particular persons and visages, on the same 
plan that Bat. Pidgeon corrects natural hair; 
that lie ha- ard to the climate under 

which his customer was born, before he pre- 
tend, to COVer his head; that no part of his 
COmp jed of hair which grew above 
i he buyer's place of nativity ; 
• k lock grew in the same 
eOUOty, and nil the hair to tb ' face in the very 

where be was born. 
1 Thai operators humbly 

'ntrc it pour more Frequent attention to (the 

■ irti, and you Would place your 

petitioners at the head of the family of the cos- 
metics, and your petitioners shall ever pray, &c.' 

' To Nestor Ironside, Esq. Guardian of Good 

'The memorial of Esau Ringwood, sheweth, 
' That though nymphs and shepherds, son- 
nets and complaints, are no more to be seen 
or heard in the forests and chases of Great 
Britain, yet are not the huntsmen who now 
frequent the woods so barbarous as represented 
in the Guardian of the twenty-first instant •, 
that the knife is not presented to the lady of 
quality by the huntsman to cut the throat of 
the deer; hut after he is killed, that instru 
ment is given her, as the animal is now become 
food, in token that all our labour, joy, and ex 
ultation in the pursuit, were excited from the 
sole hope of making the stag an offering to her 
table ; that your honour has detracted from 
the humanity of sportsmen in this representa- 
tion ; that they demand you would retract your 
error, and distinguish Britons from Scythians. 

' P. S. Repent, and eat venison.' 

To Nestor Ironside, Esquire, Avenger of 

' The humble petition of Susan How-d'ye-call, 
most humbly sheweth, 
' That your petitioner is mentioned at all 
visits, with an account of facts done by her, of 
speeches she has made, and of journeys she has 
taken, to all which circumstances your peti- 
tioner is wholly a stranger ; that in every family 
in Great Britain, glasses and cups are broken, 
and utensils displaced, and all these faults laid 
upon Mrs. How-d'ye-call ; that your petitioner 
has applied to counsel, upon these grievances ; 
that your petitioner is advised, that her case 
is the same with that of John-a-Styles, and 
that she is abused only by way of form ; your 
petitioner therefore most humbly prays, that 
in behalf of herself, and all others defamed 
under the term of Mr. or Mrs. How-d'ye-call, 
you will grant her and them the following con- 
cessions : that no reproach shall take place 
where the person has not an opportunity of 
defending himself; that the phrase of a ' cer- 
tain person,' means ' no certain person :' that 
the ' How-d'ye-calls,' ' some people,' ' a cer- 
tain set of men,' ' there are folks now-a-days,' 
and ' things are come to that pass,' are words 
that shall concern nobody after the present 
Monday in Whitsun-week, 1/13. 

' That it is baseness to offend any person, 
except the offender exposes himself to that 
person's examination j that no woman is de- 
famed by any man, without he names her 
name; that ' exasperated mistress,' ' false fair,' 
and the like, shall from the said Whitsun- 
, signify no more than Cloe, Corinua, oj 

No. 64.] 



Mrs. How d 'ye-call ; that your petitioner, being 
an old maid, may be joined in marriage to John- 
a-Nokes, or, in case of his being* resolved upon 
celibacy, to Tom Long the carrier, and your 
petitioner shall ever pray, &c.' 

1 To Nestor Ironside, Esq. 

" The humble petition of Hugh Pounce, of 
Grub-street, sheweth, 

' That in your first paper you have touched 
upon the affinity between all arts which concern 
the good of society, and professed that you 
should promote a good understanding between 

' That your petitioner is skilful in the art 
and mystery of writing verses or distichs. 

* That your petitioner does not write for 
vain-glory, but for the use of society. 

* That, like the art, of painting upon glass, 
the more durable work of writing upon iron is 
almost lost. 

' That your petitioner is retained as poet to 
the Ironmongers company. 

' Your petitioner therefore humbly desires 
you would protect him in the sole making of 
posies for knives, and all manner of learning 
to be wrought on iron, and your petitioner shall 
ever pray.' 


' To the Guardian. 

* Though every body has been talking or 
writing on the subject of Cato, ever since the 
world was obliged with that tragedy, there has 
not, methinks, been an examination of it, 
which sufficiently shows the skill of the author 
merely as a poet. There are peculiar graces 
which ordinary readers ought to be instructed 
how to admire; among others, I am charmed 
with his artificial expressions in well adapted 
siruilies: there is no part of writing in which it 
is more difficult to succeed, for on sublime oc- 
casions it requires at once the utmost strength 
of the imagination, and the severest correction 
of the judgment. Thus Syphax, when he is 
forming to himself the sudden and unexpected 
destruction which is to befall the man he hates, 
expresses himself in an image which none but 
a Numidian could have a lively sense of; but 
yet, if the author had ranged over all the ob- 
jects upon the face of the earth, he could not 
have found a representation of a disaster so 
great, so sudden, and so dreadful as this : 

' So where our wide Numidian wastes extend, 
Sudden th' impetuous hurricanes descend, 
Wheel through the air, in circling eddies play, 
Tear up the sands, and sweep whole plains away. 
The helpless traveller, with wild surprise, j 
Sees the dry desert all around him rise, > 

And smother'd in the dusty whirlwind, dies. J 

* When Sempronius promises himself the pos- 
session of Marcia by a rape, he triumphs in the 
prospect, and exults in his villany, by repre- 

senting it to himself in a manner wonderfully 
suited to the vanity and impiety of his character. 

So Pluto, seiz'd of Proserpine, conveyed 
To hell's tremendous gloom th' affrighted maid ; 
There grimly smil'd, pleas'd with the beauteous prize, 
Nor envy'd Jove his sunshine and his skies. 

' Pray old Nestor, trouble thyself no more with 
the squabbles of old lovers ; tell them from me 
now they are past the sins of the flesh, they 
are got into those of the spirit ; desire hurts 
the soul less than malice ; it is not now, as 
when they were Sappho and Phaon. 
' I am, Sir, 
' Your affectionate humble servant, 

« A. B.' 

No. 65.~\ Tuesday, Maij 26, 1713. 

Inter scabiem tantam et contagin. 

Hor. Lib. 1. Ep. xii. 13. 

Amidst the poison of such infectious times. 

There is not any where, I believe, so much 
talk about religion, as among us in England ; 
nor do I think it possible for the wit of man to 
devise forms of address to the Almighty, in 
more ardent and forcible terms than are every 
where to be found in our book of common 
prayer ; and yet I have heard it read with such 
a negligence, affectation, and impatience, that 
the efficacy of it has been apparently lost to 
all the congregation. For my part, I make no 
scruple to own it, that I go sometimes to a 
particular place in the city, far distant from 
mine own home, to hear a gentleman, whose 
manner I admire, read the liturgy. I am per- 
suaded devotion is the greatest pleasure of his 
soul, and there is none hears him read without 
the utmost reverence. I have seen the young 
people, who have been interchanging glances 
of passion to each other's person, checked into 
an attention to the service at the interruption 
which the authority of his voice has given them. 
But the other morning I happened to rise 
earlier than ordinary, and thought I could not 
pass my time better, than to go upon the ad- 
monition of the morning bell, to the church 
prayers at six of the clock. I was there the 
first of any in the congregation, and had the 
opportunity, however I made use of it, to look 
back on all my life, and contemplate the bles- 
sing and advantage of such stated early hours 
for offering ourselves to our Creator, and pre-, 
possess ourselves with the love of Him, and 
the hopes we have from Him, against the snares 
of business and pleasure in the ensuing day. 
But whether it be that people think fit to in- 
dulge their own ease in some secret, pleasing 
fault, or whatever it was, there was none at the 
confession but a set of poor scrubs of us, who 
could sin only in our wills, whose persons could 
be no temptation to one another, and might 
have, without interruption from any body else, 



[No. 65. 

humble, lowly hearts, in frightful looks and 
dirty dresses, at our leisure. When we poor 
•,ou!> had presented ourselves with a contrition 
suitable to our worthlessness, some pretty 
ladies in mobs, popped in here and there 
about tbe church, cl tttering the pew-door after 
them, and squatting into a whisper behind their 
Fans. Among others, one of lady Lizard's 
daughters, and her hopeful maid, made their 
entrance : the young lady did not omit the ar- 
dent form behind the fan, while the maid im- 
mediately gaped round her to look for some 
other devout person, whom I saw at a distance 
very well dressed ; his air and habit a little 
military, but in the pertness, not the true pos- 
session, of the martial character. This jacka- 
napes was fixed at the end of a pew, with the 
utmost impudence, declaring 1 , by a fixed eye on 
that seat (where our beauty was placed) the 
object of his devotion. This obscene sight gave 
me all the indignation imaginable, and I could 
attend to nothing but the reflection, that the 
greatest affronts imaginable are such as no one 
can take notice of. Before I was out of such 
vexatious inadvertencies to the business of the 
place, there was a great deal of good company 
now come in. There was a good number of 
very janty slatterns, who gave us to understand, 
that it is neither dress nor art to which they 
were beholden for the town's admiration. Be- 
sides these, there were also by this time arrived 
two or three sets of whisperers, who carry on 
most of their calumnies by what they entertain 
one another w ith in that place, and we were now 
altogether very good company. There were in- 
deed a few, in whose looks there appeared a 
heavenly joy and gladness upon the entrance 
of a new day, as if they had gone to sleep with 
expectation of it. For the sake of these it is 
worth while that the church keeps up such early 
matins throughout the cities of London and 
Westminster; but the generality of those who 
observe that hour, perform it with so tasteless 
a behaviour, that it appears a task rather than 
a voluntary act. But of all the world, those 
familiar ducks who are, as it were, at home at 
tbe church, and by frequently meeting there 
throw the time of prayer very negligently into 
their common life, and make their coining to- 
getherin that place as ordinary as any other 
action, and do not turn their conversation upon 
any improvements suitable to the true design 
ol that house, but on trifles below even their 
worldly concerns and characters. These are 
httlc groups of acquaintance dispersed in all 

parts of the town, who are, forsooth, the only 
people of unspotted characters, and throw all 
the spots thai Stick on those of other people. 

M due i^ the ordinary vice of those who live 
in the mode of religion, without the spirit of 

it. The pleasurable world are hurried by their 

passions above the consideration af what others 

think of them, into a pursuit vf irregular en- 

joyments; while these, who forbear the grati- 
fications of flesh and blood, without having 
won over the spirit to the interests of virtue, 
are implacable in defamations on the errors of 
such who offend without respect to fame. But 
the consideration of persons whom one cannot 
but take notice of, when one sees them in that 
place, has drawn me out of my intended talk, 
which was to bewail that people do not know 
the pleasure of early hours, and of dedicating 
their first moments of the day, with joy and 
singleness of heart, to their Creator. Expe- 
rience would convince us, that the earlier we 
left our beds, the seldomer should we be con- 
fined to them. 

One great good which would also accrue from 
this, were it become a fashion, would be, that 
it is possible our chief divines would condescend 
to pray themselves, or at least those whom they 
substitute would be better supplied, than to be 
forced to appear at those oraisons in a garb and 
attire which makes them appear mortified with 
worldly want, and not abstracted from the 
world by the contempt of it. How is it possi- 
ble for a gentleman, under the income of fifty 
pounds a year, to be attentive to sublime 
things ? He must rise and dress like a labourer 
for sordid hire, instead of approaching his place 
of service with the utmost pleasure and satis- 
faction, that now he is going to be mouth of a 
crowd of people who have laid aside all the dis- 
tinctions of this contemptible being, to beseech 
a protection under its manifold pains and dis- 
advantages, or a release from it, by his favour 
who sent them into it. He would, with decent 
superiority, look upon himself as orator before 
the throne of grace, for a crowd, who hang 
upon his words, while he asks for them all that 
is necessary in a transitory life ; from the as- 
surance that a good behaviour, for a few mo- 
ments in it, will purchase endless joy and 
happy immortality. 

But who can place himself in this view, who, 
though not pinched with want, is distracted 
with care from the fear of it ? No ; a man, in 
the least degree below the spirit of a saint or a 
martyr, will loll, huddle over his duty, look 
confused, or assume a resolution in his beha- 
viour which will be quite as ungraceful, except 
he is supported above the necessities of life. 

Power and commandment to his minister 
to declare and pronounce to his people,' is 
mentioned with a very unguarded air, when the 
speaker is known in his own private condition 
to be almost an object of their pity and charity. 
This last circumstance, with many others here 
loosely suggested, are the occasion that one 
knows not how to recommend, to such as have 
not already a fixed sense of devotion, the plea- 
sure of passing the earliest hours of the day in 
a public congregation. But were this morning 
solemnity as much in vogue, even as it is now 
at more advanced hours of the day, it would 

No. 66.] 



necessarily have so good an effect upon us, as 
to make us more disengaged and cheerful in 
conversation, and less artful and insincere in 
business. The world would be quite another 
place than it is now, the rest of the day ; and 
every face would have an alacrity in it, which 
can be borrowed from no other reflections, 
but those which give us the assured protection 
of Omnipotence. 

No. 66.] Wednesday, May 27, 1713. 

Saepe tribus lectis videas ccenare quaternos : 
E quibus nuns avet quavis aspergere cunctos, 
Prater euni qui prasbtt aquara ; p6st, Ininc quoque— 
Hor. Lib. 1. Sat. iv. 86. 

Set twelve at supper ; one above the rest 
Takes all the talk, and breaks a scurvy jest 
(hi all, ex ept the master o'f the feast : 
At last on him 

The following letter is full of imagination, 
and in a fabulous manner sets forth a connec- 
tion between things, and an alliance between 
persons, that are very distant and remote to 
common eyes. I think I know the hand to be 
that of a very ingenious man, and shall there- 
fore give it the reader without farther preface. 

To the Guardian. 


* There is a set of mankind, who are wholly 
employed in the ill-natured office of gathering 
up a collection of stories that lessen the repu- 
tation of others, and spreading them abroad 
with a certain air of satisfaction. Perhaps 
indeed, an innocent unmeaning curiosity, a 
desire of being informed concerning those we 
live with, or a willingness to profit by reflection 
upon the actions of others, may sometimes 
afford an excuse, or sometimes a defence for 
inquisitiveness; but certainly it is beyond all 
excuse a transgression against humanity, to 
carry the matter farther, to tear off the dress- 
ings as I may say, from the wounds of a friend, 
and expose them to the air in cruel fits of diver- 
sion ; and yet we have something more to be- 
moan, an outrage of a higher nature, which 
mankind is guilty of when they are not con- 
tent to spread the stories of folly, frailty, and 
vire, but even enlarge them, or invent new 
ones, and blacken characters, that we may 
appear ridiculous or hateful to one another. 
From such practices as these it happens, that 
some feel a sorrow, and others are agitated 
with a spirit of revenge ; that scandals or lies 
are told, because another has told such before ; 
that resentments and quarrels arise, and af- 
fronts and injuries are given, received, and 
multiplied, in a scene of vengeance. 

' All this I have often observed with abund- 
ance of concern, and having a perfect desire 
to further the happiness of mankind, I lately 
set myself to consider the causes from whence 
such evils arise, and the remedies which may 

be applied. Whereupon I shut my eyes to 
prevent a distraction from outward objects, 
and a while after shot away, upon an impulse 
of thought, into the world of ideas, where ab- 
stracted qualities became visible in such ap- 
pearances as were agreeable to each of their 

' That part of the country where I happened 
to light, was the most noisy that I had ever 
known. The winds whistled, the leaves rustled, 
the brooks rumbled, the birds chattered, the 
tongues of men were heard, and the echo 
mingled something of every sound in its repe- 
tition, so that there was a strange confusion 
and uproar of sounds about me. At length, 
as the noise still increased, 1 could discern a 
man habited like a herald, (and as I afterwards 
understood) called Novelty, that came forward* 
proclaiming a solemn day to be kept at the 
house of Common Fame. Immediately behind 
him advanced three nymphs, who had mon- 
strous appearances. The first of these was 
Curiosity, habited like a virgin, and having a 
hundred ears upon her head to serve in her 
enquiries. The second of these was Talkative- 
ness, a little better grown ; she seemed to be 
like a young wife, and had a hundred tongues 
to spread her stories. The third was Censori- 
ousness, habited like a widow, and surrounded 
with a hundred squinting eyes of a malignant 
influence, which so obliquely darted on all 
around, that it was impossible to say which 
of them had brought in the information she 
boasted of. Tbese, as I was informed, had 
been very instrumental in preserving and rear* 
ing Common Fame, when upon her birth-day 
she was shuffled into a crowd, to escape the 
search which Truth might have made after her 
and her parents. Curiosity found her there, 
Talkativeness conveyed her away, and Cen- 
soriousness so nursed her up, that in a short 
time she grew to a prodigious size, and ob- 
tained an empire over the universe; wherefore 
the power, in gratitude for these services, has 
since advanced them to her -highest employ- 
ments. The next who came forward in the 
procession was a light damsel, called Credulity, 
who carried behind them the lamp, the silver 
vessel with a spout, and other instruments 
proper for this solemn occasion. 

* She had formerly seen these three together, 
and conjecturing from the number of their 
ears, tongues, and eyes, that they might be 
the proper genii of Attention, Familiar Con- 
verse, and Ocular Demonstration, she from 
that time gave herself up to attend them. The 
last who followed were some who had closely 
muffled themselves in upper garments, so that 
I could not discern who they were ; but just 
as the foremost of them was come up, I am 
glad, says she, calling me by my name, to 
meet you at this time ; stay close by me, and 
take a strict observation of all that passes: 



[No. 67. 

Iiorvo! ' M»d commanding, I thought 

In anl it ; and from her, as 
I went along, 1 learned the meaning of every 
thing wbieh offered. 

4 We now marched forward through the 
Rookery of Rumours, which flew thick, and 
with a terrible din, all around us. At length 
we arrived at the house of Common Fame, 
where a hecatomb of reputations was that day 
to fall for her pleasure. The house stood upon 
au eminence, having a thousand passages to it, 
and a thousand whispering holes for the con- 
veyance of sound. The hall we entered was 
formed with the art of a music-chamber for 
the improvement of noises. Rest and silence 
are banished the place. Stories of different 
natures wander in light flocks all about, some- 
times truths and lies, or sometimes lies them- 
selves clashing against one another. In the 
middle stood a table painted after the manner 
of the remotest Asiatic countries, upon which 
the lamp, the silver vessel, and cups of a white 
earth, were planted in order. Then dried herbs 
were brought, collected for the solemnity in 
moon-shine, and water being put to them, 
there was a greenish liquor made, to which 
they added the flower of milk, and an extrac- 
tion from the canes of America, for performing 
a libation to the infernal powers of Mischief. 
After this, Curiosity, retiring to a withdrawing 
room, brought forth the victims, being to ap- 
pearance a set of small waxen images, which 
she laid upon the table one after another. 
Immediately then Talkativeness gave each of 
them the name of some one, whom for that 
time they were to represent; and Censorious- 
ness stuck them all about with black pins, still 
pronouncing at every one she stuck, something 
to the prejudice of the persons represented. 
No sooner were these rites performed, and in- 
cantations uttered, but the sound of a speaking 
trumpet was heard in the air, by which they 
knew the deity of the place was propitiated 
and assisting. Upon this the sky grew darker, 
a storm arose, and murmurs, sighs, groans, 
cries, and the words of grief, or resentment, 
were heard within it. Thus the three sor- 
ceresses discovered, that they whose names 
they had given to the images, were already 
affected with what was done to them in effigy. 
The knowledge of this was received with the 
loudesl laughter, and in many congratulatory 
ITOrdl they applauded one another's wit and 

As matter, were at this high point of dis- 
order, the muffled lady, whom I attended on, 
being no longer aide to endure such barbarous 
proceedings, threw off her upper garment of 

Reserve, and appeared to he Truth. As 

soon as she had OMlfeSSed herself present, the 

ipeaking-trumpet ceased to Bound, the sky 

( lean d lip, the <-torm abated, the noises which 
were heard in it ended, the laughter of the 

company was over, and a serene light, till 
then unknown to the place, diffused around 
it. At this the detected sorceresses endea- 
voured to escape in a cloud which I saw began 
to thicken round them; but it was soon dis- 
persed, their charms being controlled, and pre- 
vailed over by the superior divinity. For my 
part I was exceedingly glad to see it so, and 
began to consider what punishment she would 
inflict upon them. I fancied it would be pro- 
per to cut off Curiosity's ears, and fix them to 
the eaves of the houses : to nail the tongues of 
Talkativeness to Indian tables ; and to put 
out the eyes of Ceusoriousness with a flash of 
her light. In respect of Credulity, I had in- 
deed some little pity, and had I been judge she 
might, perhaps, have escaped with a hearty 

1 But I soon found that the discerning judge 
had other designs. She knew them for such 
as will not be destroyed entirely while mankind 
is in being, and yet ought to have a brand and 
punishment affixed to them that they may be 
avoided. Wherefore she took a seat for judg- 
ment, and had the criminals brought forward 
by Shame ever blushing, and Trouble with a 
whip of many lashes ; two phantoms who had 
dogged the procession in disguise, and waited 
till they had an authority from Truth to lay 
hands upon them. Immediately then she or- 
dered Curiosity and Talkativenes-s to be fettered 
together, that the one should never suffer the 
other to rest, nor the other ever let her remain 
undiscovered. Light Credulity she liuked to 
Shame at the tormentor's own request, who 
was pleased to be thus secure that her pn.v>ner 
could not escape ; and this was done partly 
for her punishment, and partly for her amend- 
ment. Ceusoriousness was also in like manner 
begged by Trouble, and had her assigned fir* 
an eternal companion. After they were thus 
chained with one another, by the judge's order, 
she drovt> them from the presence to wander 
for ever through the world, w ith Novelty stalk- 
ing before them. 

1 The cause being now over, she retreated 
from sight within the splendour of her own 
glory ; which leaving the house it had bright- 
ened, the B mndl that were proper to the place 
began to be as loud and confused as when we 
entered ; and there being no longer a olear 
distinguished appearance of any objects repre- 
sented to me, I returned from the excursion 
I had made in fancy.' 

No. 67.] Thursday, May 28, 1?K>. 

ne fortd pudori 

Sic tilii mosa h rae solers, ei canter Apollo. 

Hor. Ara Poet. ver. 40G. 
Blush Dot to patronize the muse's skill. 

It has been remarked, by curious observers, 
that poets are generally long-lived, and run 

No. G7.] 



beyond the usual age of man, if not cut off by 
some accident or excess, as Anacreon, in the 
midst of a very merry old age, was choaked 
with a grape-stone. The same redundancy of 
spirits that produces the poetical flame, keeps 
up the vital warmth, and administers uncom- 
mon fuel to life. I question not but several 
instances will occur to my reader's memory, 
from Homer down to Mr. Dryden. I shall 
only take notice of two who have excelled in 
lyrios ; the one an ancient, and the other a 
modern. The first gained an immortal repu- 
tation by celebrating several jockeys in the 
Olympic games, the last has signalized himself 
on the same occasion by the ode that begins 
with — ■ To horse, brave boys, to Newmarket, 
to horse.' My reader will, by this time, know 
that the two poets I have mentioned, are Pindar 
and Mr. d'Urfey. The former of these is long 
since laid in his urn, after having, many years 
together, endeared himself to all Greece by 
his tuneful compositions. Our countryman is 
still living, and in a blooming old age, that 
still promises many musical productions ; for 
if I am not mistaken, our British swan will 
sing to the last. The best judges who have 
perused his last song on The moderate Man, 
do not discover any decay in his parts, but 
think it deserves a place amongst the finest of 
those works with which he obliged the world 
in his more early years. 

1 am led into this subject by a visit which 
I lately received from my good old friend and 
contemporary. As we both flourished together 
in king Charles the Second's reign, we diverted 
ourselves with the remembrance of several 
particulars that passed in the world before the 
greatest part of my readers were born, and 
could not but smile to think how insensibly 
we were grown into a couple of venerable old 
gentlemen. Tom observed to me, that after 
having written more odes than Horace, and 
about four times as many comedies as Terence, 
he was reduced to great difficulties by the im- 
portunities of a set of men, who, of late years, 
had furnished him with the accommodations 
of life, and would not, as we say, be paid with 
a song. In order to extricate my old friend, 
I immediately sent for the three directors of 
the playhouse, and desired them that they 
would in their turn do a good office for a man, 
who, in Shakspeare's phrase, had often filled 
their mouths, I mean with pleasantry, and 
popular conceits. They very generously lis- 
tened to my proposal, and agreed to act the 
Plotting Sisters, (a very taking play of my old 
friend's composing) on the fifteenth of the 
next month, for the benefit of the author. 

My kindness to the agreeable Mr. d'Urfey 
will be imperfect, if after having engaged the 
players in his favour, I do not get the town to 
come into it. I must therefore heartily recom- 
mend tc all the young ladies, my disciples, the 

case of my old friend, who has often made their 
grandmothers merry, and whose sonnets have 
perhaps lulled asleep many a present toast, 
when she lay in her cradle. 

I have already prevailed on my lady Lizard 
to be at the house in one of the front boxes, 
and design, if I am in town, to lead her in 
myself at the head of her daughters. The 
gentleman I am speaking of has laid obliga- 
tions on so many of his countrymen, that I 
hope they will think this but a just return to 
the good service of a veteran poet. 

I myself remember king Charles the Second 
leaning on Tom d'Urfey 's shoulder more than 
once, and humming over a song with him. It 
is certain that monarch was not a little sup- 
ported by ' Joy to great Casar,' which gave 
the whigs such a blow as they were not able 
to recover that whole reign. My friend after- 
wards attacked popery with the same success, 
having exposed Bellannine and Porto-Carrerc 
more than once in short satirical compositions, 
which have been in every body's mouth. He 
has made use of Italian tunes and sonatas for 
promoting the protestant interest, and turned 
a considerable part of the pope's music against 
himself. In short, he has obliged the court 
with political sonnets, the country with dia- 
logues and pastorals, the city with descriptions 
of a lord-mayor's feast, not to mention his 
little ode upon Stool-Ball, with many other of 
the like nature. 

Should the very individuals he has celebrated 
make their appearance together, they would 
be sufficient to fill the play-house. Pretty Peg 
of Windsor, Gillian of Croydon, with Dolly 
and Molly, and Tommy and Johny, with many 
others to be met with in the Musical Miscel- 
lanies, entitled, Pills to purge Melancholy, 
would make a good benefit night. 

As my friend, after the manner of the old 
lyrics, accompanies his works with his own 
voice, he has been the delight of the most 
polite companies and conversations, from the 
beginning of king Charles the Second's reign 
to our present times. Many an honest gentle- 
man has got a reputation in his country, by 
pretending to have been in company with Tom 

1 might here mention several other merits 
in my friend ; as his enriching our language 
with a multitude of rhimes, and bringing words 
together, that without his good offices, would 
never have been acquainted with one another, 
so long as it had been a tongue. But I must 
not omit that my old friend angles for a trout, 
the best of any man in England. May-flies 
come in late this season, or I myself should 
before now, have had a trout of his hooking. 

After what I have said, and much more that 

I might say, on this subject, I question not 

but the world will think that my old friend 

ought not to pass the remainder of his life in 




[No. 6$, 

like a ringing bird, but enjoy all that 
pindaric liberty which is suitable to a man of 
his genius. He bafl made the world merry, 
and I hope they will make him easy, so long 
as he stays among" us. This I will take upon 
me to say, they cannot do a kindness to a more 
diverting companion, or a more cheerful, bo- 
nest, and good-natured man. C3- 

No. CO.] Friday, May 29, 1713. 

Inspireie, tanquam in speculum, in vitas omnium 
Jubeo, atquc ex aliis sumerc exemplum sibi. 

Tcr. Adclph. Act. iii. Sc. 4. 

My advice to him i=, to consult the lives of other men 
r.s lie would a looking-glass, and from thence letch ex- 
amples for his own imitation. 

The paper of to-day shall consist of a letter 
from my friend sir Harry Lizard, which, with 
roy answer, may be worth the perusal of young 
men of estates, and young women without for- 
tunes. It is absolutely necessary, that in our 
first vigorous years we lay down some law to 
ourselves for the conduct of future life, which 
may at least prevent essential misfortunes. 
The cutting cares which attend such an affec- 
tion as that against which I forewarn my friend 
sir Harry, are very well known to all who 
are called the men of pleasure ; but when 
they have opposed their satisfactions to their 
anxieties in an impartial examination, they 
will find their life not only a dream, but a 
troubled and vexatious one. 

* I believe you are very much surprised, 
that in the several letters I have written to 
you, since the receipt of that wherein you re- 
commend a young lady for a wife to your hum- 
ble servant, I have not made the least mention 
of that matter. It happens at this time that 
I am not much inclined to marry ; there are 
very many matches in our country, wherein 
the parties live so insipidly, or so vexatiously, 
that I am afraid to venture from their example. 
Besides, to tell you the truth, good Nestor, I 
am informed your fine young woman is soon 
to be disposed of elsewhere. As to the young 
ladies of my acquaintance in your great town, 
I do not know one whom 1 could think of as a 
wife, who is not either prepossessed wjth some 
inclination for some other man, or affects plea- 
sures and entertainments) which she prefers to 
tin' conversation of any man living. Women 
Of thil kind are the most frequently met with 
of any K>rt whatsoever; I mean they are the 
most frequent among people of condition, that 
is !j , iv, sui h are easily to be had as would sit 
at the head uf your estate and tahle, lie-in by 
ynu tnr the sake el receiving visits in pomp at 
the end () f tlu- month, and enjoy the like gra- 
tifications from the BUpport of your fortune ; 
but you yourself would signify no more to one 

of them, than a name in trust in a settlement 
which conveys land and goods, but has no right 
for its own use. A woman of this turn can no 
more make a wife, than an ambitious man 
can be a friend ; they both sacrifice all the 
true ,'tastes of being, and motives of life, foi 
the ostentation, the noise, and the appearance 
of it. Their hearts are turned to unnatural 
objects, and as the men of design can carry 
them on with an exclusion of their daily com- 
panions, so women of this kind of gayety, can 
Hve at bed and board with a man, without any 
affection to his person. As to any woman that 
you examine hereafter for my sake, if you can 
possibly, find a means to converse with her at 
some country seat. If she has no relish for 
rural views, but is undelighted with streams, 
fields, and groves, I desire to hear no more of 
her ; she has departed from nature, and is 
irrecoverably engaged in vanity. 

1 I have ever been curious to observe the 
arrogance of a town lady when she first comes 
down to her husband's seat, and, beholding her 
country neighbours, wants somebody to laugh 
with her, at the frightful things, to whom she 
herself is equally ridiculous. The pretty pitty- 
pat step, the playing head, and the fall-hack 
in the curtesy, she does not imagine, make 
her as unconversable, and inaccessible to our 
plain people, as the loud voice and ungainly 
stride render one of our huntresses to her. In 
a word, dear Nestor, I beg you to suspend all 
enquiries towards my matrimony until you hear 
further from, 

* Sir, your most obliged, 

' and most humble servant, 


A certain loose turn in this letter, mixed 
indeed with some real exceptions to the t'»o 
frequent silly choice made by country gentle- 
men, has given me no small anxiety: and I 
have sent sir Harry an account of my suspi 
cions, as follows. 

* To Sir Harry Lizard. 


' Your letter 1 have read over two or three 
times, and must be so free with you as to tell 
you, it has in it something which betrays you 
have lost that simplicity of heart with relation 
to love, which 1 promised myself would crown 
your days with happiness and honour. The 
alteration of your mind towards marriage is 
not represented as flowing from discretion and 
wariness in the choice, but a disinclination to 
that state in general; yon seem secretly to 
propose to yourself (for I will think no other- 
wise of a man of your age and temper) all its 
satisfactions out of it, and to avoid the care 
and inconveniencies that attend those who 
enter into it. I will not urge at this time the 
greatest consideration of all, to wit, regard of 
innocence : but having, I think, in my eye, 

No. 68.] 



what you aim at, I must, as I am your friend, 
acquaint you, that you are going 1 into a wilder- 
ness of cares and distractions, from which you 
will never be able to extricate yourself, while 
the compunctions of honour and pity are yet 
alive in you. 

1 Without naming- names, I have long sus- 
pected your designs upon a young gentlewoman 
in your neigbourhood : but give me leave to 
tell you with all the earnestness of a faithful 
friend, .bat to enter into a criminal commerce 
with a woman of merit, whom you find inno- 
cent, is of all the follies in this life, the most 
fruitful of sorrow. You must make your ap- 
proaches to her with the benevolence and lan- 
guage of a good angel, in order to bring upon 
her pollution and shame, which is the work of 
a demon. The fashion of the world, the warmth 
of youth, and the affluence of fortune, may, 
perhaps, make you look upon me in this talk, 
like a poor well-meaning old man, who is past 
those ardencies in which you at present triumph; 
but believe me, sir, if you succeed in what I 
fear you design, you will find the sacrifice of 
beauty and innocence so strong an obligation 
upon you, that your whole life will pass away 
in the worst condition imaginable, that of doubt 
and irresolution; you will ever be designing to 
leave her, and never do it ; or else leave her 
for another, with a constant longing after her. 
He is a very unhappy man who does not re- 
serve the most pure and kind affections of his 
heart for his marriage-bed, he will otherwise 
be reduced to this melancholy circumstance, 
that he gave his mistress that kind of affection 
whloh was proper for his wife, and has not for 
his wife either that, or the usual inclination 
which men bestow upon their mistresses. After 
such an affair as this, you are a very lucky 
man if you find a prudential marriage is only 
insipid, and not actually miserable ; a woman 
of as ancient a family as your own, may come 
into the house of the Lizards, murmur in your 
bed, growl at your table, rate your servants, 
and insult yourself, while you bear all this 
with this unhappy reflection at the bottom of 

your heart, " This is all for the injured " 

The heart is ungovernable enough, without 
being biassed by prepossessions; how empha- 
tically unhappy therefore is he, who besides 
the natural vagrancy of affection, has a passion 
to one particular object, in which he sees no- 
thing but what is lovely, except what proceeds 
from his own guilt against it ! I speak to you, 
my dear friend, as one who tenderly regards 
your welfare, and beg of you to avoid this great 
error, which has rendered so many agreeable 
men unhappy before you. When a man is 
engaged among the dissolute, gay, and artful 
of the fair sex, a knowledge of their manners 
and designs, their favours unendeared by truth, 
their feigned sorrows and gross flatteries, must 
in time rescue a reasonable man from the in- 

chantment ; but in a case wherein you have 
none but yourself to accuse, you will find the 
best part of a generous mind torn away with 
her, whenever you take your leave of an in- 
jured, deserving woman. Come to town, fly 
from Oliuda, to your 

' Obedient humble servant, 


No. 69.] Saturday, May 30, 1713. 

Jupiter est quodcunque vides Lucan. 

Where'er you turn your eyes, 'tis God you see. 

I HAD this morning a very valuable and kind 
present sent me of a translated work of a most 
excellent foreign writer, who makes a very 
considerable figure in the learned and Chris- 
tian world. It is entitled, A Demonstration 
of the Existence, Wisdom, and Omnipotence 
of God, drawn from the knowledge of nature, 
particularly of man, and fitted to the meanest 
capacity, by the archbishop of Cambray, author 
of Telemachus, and translated from the French 
by the same hand that englished that excellent 
piece. This great author, in the writings which 
he has before produced, has manifested a heart 
full of virtuous sentiments, great benevolence 
to mankind, as well as a sincere and fervent 
piety towards his Creator. His talents and 
parts are a very great good to the world, and 
it is a pleasing thing to behold the poiite arts 
subservient to religion, and recommending it 
from its natural beauty. Looking over the 
letters of my correspondents, I find one which 
celebrates this treatise, and recommends it to 
my readers. 

* To the Guardian. 


' I think I have somewhere read, in the 
writings of one whom I take to be a friend of 
yours, a saying which struck me very much, 
and as I remember, it was to this purpose 
" The existence of a God is so far from being 
a thing that wants to be proved, that I think 
it is the only thing of which we are certain." 
This is a sprightly and just expression ; how- 
ever, I dare say, you will not be displeased that 
I put you in mind of saying something on the 
Demonstration of the bishop of Cambray. A 
man of his talents views all things in a light 
different from that in which ordinary men see 
them, and the devout disposition of his soul 
turns all those talents to the improvement of 
the pleasures of a good life. His style clothes 
philosophy in a dress almost poetic ; and his 
readers enjoy in full perfection the advantage, 
while they are reading him, of being what he 
is. The pleasing representation of the animal 
powers in the beginning of his work, and his 
consideration of the nature of man with the 
addition of reason in the subsequent discourse, 



[No. y. 

impfMMI upon the mind a strong satifaction 
in itself, and gratitude towards Him who be<- 
! that superiority over the brute-world. 
Tbese thoughts had such an effect upon the 
author himself, that lie has ended his discourse 
with ■ prayer. This adoration has a sublimity 
in it befitting his character, and the emotions 
of his heart flow from wisdom and knowledge. 
I thought it would be proper for a Saturday's 
paper, and have translated it to make you a 
present of it. I have not, as the translator 
was obliged to do, confined myself to an exact 
version from the original, but have endeavoured 
to express the spirit of it, by taking the liberty 
to render his thoughts in such a way as I should 
have uttered them if they had been my own. 
It has been observed, that the private letters 
of great men are the best pictures of their 
souls ; but certainly their private devotions 
would be still more instructive, and I know 
not why they should not be as curious and en- 

' If you insert this prayer, I know not but I 
may send you, for another occasion, one used 
by a very great wit of the last age, which has 
allusions to the errors of a very wild life ; and, 
1 believe you will think is written with an 
uncommon spirit. The person whom I mean 
was an excellent writer, and the publication of 
this prayer of his may be, perhaps, some kind 
of antidote against the infection in his other 
writings. But this supplication of the bishop 
has in it a more happy and untroubled spirit; 
it is (if that is not saying something too fond) 
the worship of an angel concerned for those 
who had fallen, but himself still in the state of 
glory and innocence. The book ends with an 
act of devotion, to this effect. 

' O my God, if the greater number of man- 
kind do not discover thee in that glorious show 
of nature which thou hast placed before our 
eyes, it is not because thou art far from every 
one of us. Thou art present to us more than 
any object which we touch with our hands; 
but our senses, and the passions which they 
produce in us, turn our attention from thee. 
Thy light shines in the midst of darkness, but 
the darkness comprehends it not. Thou, O 
Lord, dost every way display thyself. Thou 
shinest in all thy works, but art not regarded 
by heedless and unthinking man. The whole 
creation talks aloud of thee, and echos with 
tin- repetition* of thy holy name. But such is 
our insensibility* that we are deaf to the great 
and aniversal voice of nature* Thou art every 

\\ lure- about us, and w ithin us ; but we wander 

from ourselves, become strangers to our own 

soul--, and do not apprehend thy presence. 
() thou, who art the eternal fountain of light 
and beauty, who art the ancient of days, with- 
out beginning and without end 5 () thou, who 
ail the life Of all thai truly live, those can never 
hid to find tine, who seek for thee within 

themselves. But alas! the very gifts which 
thou bestowest upon us do so employ our 
thoughts, that they hinder us from perceiving 
the hand which conveys them to us. We live 
by thee, and yet we live without thinking on 
tbee ; but, O Lord, what is life in the igno- 
rance of thee" ! A dead unactive piece of mat- 
ter ; a flower that withers ; a river that glides 
away ; a palace that hastens to its ruin ; a 
picture made up of fading colours ; a mass of 
shining ore : strike our imaginations and make 
us sensible of their existence. We regard them 
as objects capable of giving us pleasure, not 
considering that thou conveyest, through them, 
all the pleasure which we imagine they give us. 
Such vain empty objects that are only the sha- 
dows of being, are proportioned to our low and 
groveling thoughts. That beauty which thou 
hast poured out on thy creation, is as a veil 
which hides thee from our eyes. As thou art 
a being too pure and exalted to pass through 
our senses, thou art not regarded by men, who 
have debased their nature, and have made 
themselves like the beasts that perish. So in- 
fatuated are they, that notwithstanding they 
know what is wisdom and virtue, which have 
neither sound, nor colour, nor smell, nor taste, 
nor figure, nor any other sensible quality, they 
can doubt of thy existence, because thou art 
not apprehended by the grosser organs of sense. 
Wretches that we are are ! we consider shadows 
as realities, and truth as a phantom. That 
which is nothing, is all to us ; and that which 
is all, appears to us nothing. What do we see 
in all nature but thee, O my God ! Thou and 
only thou, appearest in every thing. When I 
consider thee, O Lord, I am swallowed up, 
and lost in contemplation of thee. Every thing 
besides thee, even my own existence, vanishes 
and disappears in the contemplation of thee. 
I am lost to myself, and fall into nothing, when 
I think on thee. The man who does not see 
thee, has beheld nothing; he who does not 
taste thee, has a relish of nothing; his being 
is vain, and his life but a dream. Set up thy- 
self, O Lord, set up thyself, that we may be- 
hold thee. As wax consumes before the fire, 
and as the smoke is driven away, so let thine 
enemies vanish out of thy presence. How un- 
happy is that soul who, without the sense of 
thee, has no God, no hope, no comfort to 
support him ! But how happy the man who 
searches, sighs, and thirsts after thee ! But he 
only is fully happy, on whom thou liftest up 
the light of thy countenance, whose tears thou 
hast wiped away, and who enjoys in thy loving- 
kindness the completion of all his desires. How 
long, how long, O Lord, shall I wait for that 
day when I shall possess, in thy presence, full- 
ness of joy and pleasures for evermore ? O my 
God, in this pleasing hope, my bones rejoice 
and cry out, Who is like unto thee ! My heart 
melts away, and my soul faints within me when 

No. 70. 



I look up to Thee, who art the God of my life, 
and my portion to all eternity.' 

No. 70.] Monday, June 1, 1713. 

mentisque capacius altre. Ovid. Met. Lib. i. 76. 

Of thoughts enlarg'd, and more exalted mind. 

As I was the other day taking a solitary walk 
in St. Paul's, I indulged my thoughts in the 
pursuit of a certain analogy between that fabric 
and the Christian church in the largest sense. 
The divine order and economy of the one 
seemed to be emblematically set forth by the 
'ust, plain, and majestic architecture of the 
other. And as the one consists of a great va- 
riety of parts united in the same regular design, 
according to the truest art, and most exact 
proportion ; so the other contains a decent sub- 
ordination of members, various sacred institu- 
tions, sublime doctrines, and solid precepts of 
morality digested into the same design, and 
with an admirable concurrence tending to one 
view, the happiness and exaltation of human 

In the midst of my contemplation, I beheld 
a fly upon one of the pillars ; and it straight- 
way came into my head, that this same fly was 
a free-thinker. For it required some compre- 
hension .in the eye of the spectator, to take in 
at one view the various parts of the building, 
in order to observe their symmetry and design. 
But to the fly, whose prospect was confined to 
a little part of one of the stones of a single 
pillar, the joint beauty of the whole, or the 
distinct use of its parts, were inconspicuous, 
and nothing could appear but small inequalities 
in the surface of the hewn stone, which in the 
view of that insect seemed so many deformed 
rocks and precipices. 

The thoughts of a free-thinker are employed 
on certain minute particularities of religion, 
the difficulty of a single text, or the unaccount- 
ableness of some step of Providence or point 
of doctrine to his narrow faculties, without 
comprehending the scope and design of Chris- 
tianity, the perfection to which it raiseth hu- 
man nature, the light it hath shed abroad in 
the world, and the close connexion it hath as 
well with the good of public societies, as with 
that of particular persons. 

This raised in me some reflections on that 
fcame or disposition which is called ' largeness 
of mind,' its necessity towards forming a true 
judgment of things, and where the soul is not 
incurably stinted by nature, what are the like- 
liest methods to give it enlargement. 

It is evident that philosophy doth open and 
enlarge the mind, by the general views to which 
men are habituated in that study, and by the 
contemplation of more numerous and distant 
objects, than fall within the sphere of mankind 
in the ordinary pursuits of life. Hence it comes 

to pass, that philosophers Judge of most things 
very differently from the vulgar. Some in- 
stances of this may be seen in the Theretetus 
of Plato, where Socrates makes the following 
remarks, among others of the like nature. 

* When a philosopher hears ten thousand 
acres mentioned as a great estate, he looks 
upon it as an inconsiderable spot, having been 
used to contemplate the whole globe of earth. 
Or when he beholds a man elated with the no- 
bility of his race, because he can reckon a series 
of seven rich ancestors ; the philosopher thinks 
him a stupid ignorant fellow, whose mind can- 
not reach to a general view of human nature, 
which would show him that we have all innu- 
merable ancestors, among whom are crowds of 
rich and poor, kings and slaves, Greeks and 
barbarians/ Thus far Socrates, who was ac- 
counted wiser than the rest of the heathens, 
for notions which approach the nearest to 

As all parts and branches of philosophy, or 
speculative knowledge, are useful in that re- 
spect, astronomy is peculiarly adapted to re- 
medy a little and narrow spirit. In that science 
there are good reasons assigned to prove the 
sun a hundred thousand times bigger than our 
earth, and the distance of the stars so prodigious, 
that a cannon-bullet continuing in its ordinary 
rapid motion, would not arrive from hence at 
the nearest of them in the space of a hundred 
and fifty thousand years. These ideas wonder- 
fully dilate and expand the mind. There is 
something in the immensity of this distance 
that shocks and overwhelms the imagination ; 
it is too big for the grasp of a human intellect : 
estates, provinces, and kingdoms, vanish at its 
presence. It were to be wished a certain 
prince,* who hath encouraged the study of it 
in his subjects, had been himself a proficient 
in astronomy. This might have showed him 
how mean an ambition that was, which ter- 
minated in a small part of what is itself but a 
point, in respect to that part of the universe 
which lies within our view. 

But the Christian religion ennobleth and en- 
largeth the mind beyond any other profession 
or science whatsoever. Upon that scheme, while 
the earth, and the transient enjoyments of this 
life, shrink into the narrowest dimensions, and 
are accounted as ' the dust of a balance, the 
drop of a bucket, yea, less than nothing,' the 
intellectual world opens wider to our view. 
The perfections of the Deity, the nature and 
excellence of virtue, the dignity of the human 
soul, are displayed in the largest characters. 
The mind of man seems to adapt itself to the 
different nature of its objects ; it is contracted 
and debased by being conversant in little and 
low things, and feels a proportionable enlarge- 
ment arising from the contemplation of these 
{Treat and sublime ideas. 

* Lewis Xiy 



No. 71 

The greatness of things is comparative ; ami 
this dors not only hold in respect of extension, 
but likewise in respect of dignity, duration, 
and all kimls of perfection. Astronomy opens 
[he mind, and alters our judgment, with re- 
gard to the magnitude of extended beings ; 
but Christianity produceth a universal great- 
ness of soul. Philosophy increaseth our views 
in every respect, but Christianity extends them 
to a degree beyond the light of nature. 

How mean must the most exalted potentate 
upon earth appear to that eye which takes in 
innumerable orders of blessed spirits, differing 
in glory and perfection! How little must the 
amusements of sense, and the ordinary oc- 
cupations of mortal men, seem to one who is 
engaged in so noble a pursuit, as the assimila- 
tion of himself to the Deity, which is the pro- 
per employment of every Christian ' . . * 

And the improvement which grows from ha- 
bituating the mind to the comprehensive views 
of religion must not be thought wholly to re- 
gard the understanding. Nothing is of greater 
force to subdue the inordinate motions of the 
heart, and to regulate the will. Whether a 
man be actuated by his passions or his reason, 
these are first wrought upon by some object, 
which stirs the soul in proportion to its appa- 
rent dimensions. Hence irreligious men, whose 
short prospects are filled with earth, and sense, 
and mortal life, are invited, by these mean 
ideas, to actions proportionably little and low. 
But a mind, whose views are enlightened and 
extended by religion, is animated to nobler 
pursuits by more sublime and remote objects. 

There is not any instance of weakness in the 
free-thinkers that raises my indignation more, 
than their pretending to ridicule Christians, 
as men of narrow understandings, and to pass 
themselves upon the world for persons of su- 
perior sense, and more enlarged views. But I 
leave it to any impartial man to judge which 
bath the nobler sentiments, which the greater 
views ; he whose notions are stinted to a few 
miserable inlets of sense, or he whose senti- 
ments are raised above the common taste, by 
the anticipation of those delights which will 
satiate the soul, when the whole capacity of 
her nature is branched out into new faculties ? 
He who looks for nothing beyond this short 
span of duration, or he whose aims are co-ex- 
tended with the endless length of eternity? 
He who derives his spirit from the elements, 
or he who thinks it was inspired by the Al- 
mighty ? 

NO. 7 I.J Tm.-daii, June 2, 1713. 

I m< ultra n. que militarb 

ill ii- j 
N< c Jui> • i. iin general, leononi 


lL'i-. Lib, I. Ori.xxli. 13. 

No boast, of more poteofona 8i7.c, 
In the Ilercinian forest lies ; 
Nor fiercer in Nn'midia lired, 
Witli Cartilage were in triumph led. 


I question not but my country customers 
will be surprised to hear me complain that this 
town is, of late years, very much infested with 
lions : and will perhaps, look upon it as a 
strange piece of news when I assure them that 
there are many of these beasts of prey, who 
walk our streets in broad day-light, beating 
about from coffee-house to coffee-house, and 
seeking whom they may devour. 

To unriddle this paradox, I must acquaint 
my rural reader that we polite men of the town 
give the name of a lion to any one that is a 
great man's spy. And whereas I cannot dis- 
charge my office of Guardian without setting 
a mark on such a noxious animal, and caution- 
ing my wards against him, I design this whole 
paper as an essay upon the political lion. 

It has cost me a great deal of time to dis- 
cover the reason of this appellation, but after 
many disquisitions and conjectures ou so ob- 
scure a subject, I find there are two accounts 
of it more satisfactory than the rest. In the 
republic of Venice, which has been always the 
mother of politics, there are near the doge's 
palace several large figures of lions curiously 
wrought in marble, with mouths gaping in a 
most enormous manner. Those who have a 
mind to give the state any private intelligence 
of what passes in the city, put their hands into 
the mouth of one of these lions, and convey 
into it a paper of such private informations as 
any way regard the interest or safety of the 
commonwealth. By this means all the secrets 
of state come out of the lion's mouth. The 
informer is concealed ; it is the lion that tells 
every thing. In short, there is not a misma- 
nagement in office, or a murmur in conversa- 
tion, which the lion does not acquaint the 
government with. For this reason, say the 
learned, a spy is very properly distinguished 
by the name of lion. 

I must confess this etymology is plausible 
enough, and I did for some time acquiesce in 
it, till about a year or two ago I met with a 
little manuscript which sets this whole matter 
in a clear light. In the reign of queen Eliza- 
beth, says my author, the renowned Walsing- 
ham had many spies in his service, from whom 
the government received great advantage. The 
most eminent among them was the statesman's 
barber, whose surname was Lion. This fellow 
had an admirable knack of fishing out the 
secrets of his customers, as they were under 
his hands. He would rub and lather a man's 
head, till he had got out every thing that 
was in it. He had a certain snap in his fingers 
and a volubility in his tongue, that would en- 
gage u man to talk with him whether he woult" 

No. 71.] 



or no. By this means he became an inex- 
haustible fund of private intelligence, and so 
signalized himself in the capacity of a spy, 
that from his time a master-spy goes under 
the name of a lion. 

Walsingham had a most excellent penetra- 
tion, and never attempted to turn any man 
into a lion whom he did not see highly qua- 
lified for it when he was in his human [con- 
dition. Indeed the speculative men of those 
times say of him, that he would now and then 
play them off, and expose them a little unmer- 
cifully ; but that, in my opinion, seems only 
good policy, for otherwise they might set up 
for men again, when they thought fit, and 
desert his service. But however, though in 
that very corrupt age he made use of these 
animals, he had a great esteem for true men, 
and always exerted the highest generosity in 
offering them more, without asking terms of 
them, and doing more for them out of mere 
respect for their talents, though against hirn, 
than they could expect from any other minister 
whom they had served never so conspicuously. 
This made Raleigh (who profest himself his 
opponent) say one day to a friend, ' Pox take 
this Walsingham, he baffles every body ; he 
won't so .much as let a man hate him in pri- 
vate.' True it is, that by the wanderings, 
roarings, and lurkings of his lions, he knew 
the way to every man breathing, who bad 
not a contempt for the world itself. He had 
»ions rampant whom he -ased for the service 
of the church, and couchant who were to lie 
down for the queen. They were so much at 
command, that the couchant would act as 
the rampant, and the rampant as couchant, 
without being the least out of countenance, 
and all this within four-and-twenty hours. 
Walsingham had the pleasantest life in the 
world; for, by the force of his power and in- 
telligence, he saw men as they really were, and 
not as the world thought of them : all this was 
principally brought about by feeding his lions 
well, or keeping them hungry, according to 
their different constitutions. 

Having giving this short, but necessary ac- 
count of this statesman and his barber, who, 
like the tailor in Shakspeare's Pyramus and 
Thysbe, was a man made as other men are, 
notwithstanding he was a nominal lion, I shall 
proceed to the description of this strange 
species of creatures. Ever since the wise Wal- 
singham was secretary in this nation, our 
statesmen are said to have encouraged the 
breed among us, as very well knowing that a 
lion in our British arms is one of the supporters 
of the crown, and that it is impossible for a 
government, in which there are such a variety 
of factions and intrigues, to subsist without 
this necessary animal. 
A lion, or master-spy, hath several jack-calls 

under him, who are his retailers in intelligence, 
and bring him in materials for his report ; his 
chief haunt is a coffee-house, and as his voice 
is exceeding strong, it aggravates the sound of 
every thing it repeats. 

As the lion generally thirsts after blood, and 
is of a fierce and cruel nature, there are no 
secrets which he hunts after with more delight, 
than those that cut off heads, hang, draw, and 
quarter, or end in the ruin of the person who 
becomes his prey. If he gets the wind of any 
word or action that may do a man good, it is 
not for his purpose, he quits the chace and 
falls into a more agreeable scent. 

He discovers a wonderful sagacity in seeking 
after his prey. He couches and frisks about 
in a thousand sportful motions to draw it within 
his reach, and has a particular way of imitating 
the sound of the creature whom he would en- 
snare ; an artifice to be met with in no beast 
of prey, except the hyaena and the political 

You seldom see a cluster of newsmongers 
without a lion in the midst of them. He never 
misses taking his stand within ear-shot of one 
of those little ambitious men who set up for 
orators in places of public resort. If there is a 
whispering-hole, or any public-spirited corner 
in a coffee-house, you never fail of seeing a 
lion couched upon his elbow in some part of 
the neighbourhood. 

A lion is particularly addicted to the perusal 
of every loose paper that lies in his way. He ap- 
pears more than ordinary attentive to what he 
reads, while he listens to those who are about 
him. He takes up the Post-man, and snuffs 
the candle that he may hear the better by it. I 
have seen a lion pore upon a single paragraph 
in an old gazatte for two hours together, if his 
neighbours have been talking all that while. 

Having given a full description of this mon- 
ster, for the benefit of such innocent persons 
as may fall into his walks, I shall apply a word 
or two to the lion himself, whom I would desire 
to consider that he is a creature hated both by 
God and man, and regarded with the utmost 
contempt even by such as make use of him. 
Hangmen and executioners are necessary in a 
state, and so may the animal I have been here 
mentioning ; but how despicable is the wretch 
that takes on him so vile an employment ? 
There is scarce a being that would not suffer 
by a comparison with him, except that being 
only who acts the same kind of part, and is 
both the tempter and accuser of mankind. 

N. B. Mr. Ironside has, within five weeks 
last past, muazled three lions, gorged five, and 
killed one. On Monday next the skin of the 
dead one will be hung up in terrorem, at 
Button's coffee-house, over against Tom's in 
Covent-Garden, fc 3 * 



[No. 72. 

7-?..] If, Jnesday, June 3, 1713. 

In viiinni Illicit. is cxiidit, el vim 

1 ' (Mm k u«-- ragi Hor. Ars Toet. vcr. 282. 

— lis liberty wu tnrned to rage; 

Such rage as civil pow'r was forc'd to tame. — Creech. 

Oxford is a place which I am more inqui- 
sitive about than even that of my nativity; 
and when I have an account of any sprightly 
saving, or rising genius from thence, it brings 
my own youthful days into my mind, and 
throws me forty years back into life. It is for 
this reason, that I have thought myself a little 
neglected of late by Jack Lizard, from whom 
I used to hear at least once a week. The last 
post brought me his excuse, which is, that he 
hath been wholly taken up in preparing some 
exercises for the theatre. He tells me like- 
wise, that the talk there is about a public act, 
and that the gay part of the university have 
great expectation of a Terrae-filius, who is to 
lash and stkig all the world in a satyrical 
speech. Against the great licence which hath 
heretofore been taken in these libels, he ex- 
presses himself with such humanity, as is very 
unusual in a young person, and ought to be 
cherished and admired. For my own part, 
I so far agree with him, that if the university 
permits a thing, which I think much better let 
alone; I hope those, whose duty it is to ap- 
point a proper person for that office, will take 
care that he utter nothing unbecoming a gen- 
tleman, a scholar, and a Christian. Moreover, 
I would have them consider that their learned 
body hath already enemies enough, who are 
prepared to aggravate all irreverent insinu- 
ations, and to interpret all oblique indecencies, 
who will triumph in such a victory, and bid the 
university thank herself for the consequences. 
In my time I remember the Terrae-filius 
contented himself with being bitter upon the 
pope, or chastising the Turk ; and raised a 
serious and manly mirth, and adapted to the 
dignity of his auditory, by exposing the false 
reasoning of the heretic, or ridiculing the 
clumsy pretenders to genius and politeness. 
In the jovial reign of king Charles the Second, 
wherein never did more wit or more ribaldry 
abound, the fashion of being arch upon all that 
was grave, and waggish upon the ladies, crept 
into our seats of learning upon these occasions. 
This was managed grossly and awkwardly 
enough, in a place where the general plainness 
and simplicity of manners could ill bear the 
mention of such crimes, as in courts and great 
cities arc called by the specious names of air 
ami gallantry. It is to me amazing, that ever 
any man, bred up in the knowledge of virtue 
ami humanity, should so far cast oil' all shame 
and tenderness, as to stand up in the face of 

thousands, and utter such contumelies as 1 have 
j cad and heard of. Let such a one know that 

he is making fools merry, and wise men 6ick ; 
and that, in the eye of considering persons, he 
hath less compunction than the common hang- 
man, and less shame than a prostitute. 

lufamy is so cutting an evil, that most per- 
sons who have any elevation of soul, think it 
worse than death. Those who have it not in 
their power to revenge it, often pine away in 
anguish, and loath their being ; and those who 
have, enjoy no rest till they have vengeance. 
I shall therefore make it the business of this 
paper to show how base and ungenerous it is 
to traduce the women, and how dangerous 
to expose men of learning and character, who 
have generally been the subjects of these in- 

It hath been often said, that women seem 
formed to soften the boisterous passions, and 
sooth the cares and anxieties to which men 
are exposed in the many perplexities of life. 
That having weaker bodies, and less strength 
of mind than man, nature hath poured out 
her charms upon them, and given them such 
tenderness of heart, that the most delicate de- 
light we receive from them is, in thinking them 
entirely ours, and under our protection. Ac- 
cordingly we find, that all nations have paid a 
decent homage to this weaker and lovelier part 
of the rational creation, in proportion to their 
removal from savageness and barbarism. Chas- 
tity and truth are the only due returns that 
that they can make for this generous dispo- 
sition in the nobler sex. For beauty is so far 
from satisfying us of itself, that whenever we 
think that it is communicated to others, we 
behold it with regret and disdain. "Whoever 
therefore robs a woman of her reputation, de- 
spoils a poor defenceless creature of all that 
makes her valuable, turns her beauty into 
loathsomeness, and leaves her friendless, aban- 
doned, and undone. There are many tempers 
so soft that the least calumny gives them pains 
they are not able to bear. They give them- 
selves up to strange fears, gloomy reflections, 
and deep melancholy. How savage must he 
be, who can sacrifice the quiet of such a mind 
to a transient burst of mirth ! Let him who 
wantonly sports away the peace of a poor lady 
consider what discord he sows in families; how 
often he wrings the heart, of a hoary parent ; 
how often he rouses the fury of a jealous hus- 
band ; how he extorts from the abused woman 
curses, perhaps not unheard, and pouredSout 
in the bitterness of her soul ! What weapons 
hath she wherewith to repel such an outrage I. 
How shall she oppose her softness and imbe- 
cility to the hardened forehead of a coward 
who hath trampled upon weakness that t-ould 
not resist him! to a buffoon, who hath slan- 
dered innocence to raise the laughter of fools ! 
who hath ' scattered firebrands, arrows, and 
deaths, and said, am I not in sport'.' 

No. 72.] 



Irreverent reflections upon men of learning 
and note, if their character be sacred, do great 
disservice to religion, and betray a vile mind 
in the author. I have therefore always thought 
with indignation upon that c accuser of the 
brethren,' the famous antiquary,* whose em- 
ployment it was for several years, to rake up 
all the ill-natured stories that had ever been 
fastened upon celebrated men, and transmit 
them to posterity with cruel industry, and 
malicious joy. Though the good men, ill-used, 
may out of a meek and Christian disposition, 
so far subdue their natural resentment, as to 
neglect and forgive; yet the inventors of such 
calumnies will find generous persons, whose 
bravery of mind makes them think themselves 
proper instruments to chastise such insolence. 
And I have in my time, more than once known 
the discipline of the blanket administered to 
the offenders, and all their slanders answered 
by that kind of syllogism which the ancient 
Romans called the argumentum bacillinum. ^ 

I have less compassion for men of sprightly 
parts and genius, whose characters are played 
upon, because they have it in their power to 
revenge themselves tenfold. But I think of 
all the classes of mankind, they are the most 
pardonable if they pay the slanderer in his own 
coin. For their names being already blazed 
abroad in the world, the least blot thrown upon 
them is displayed far and wide ; and they have 
this sad privilege above the men in obscurity, 
that the dishonour travels as far as their fame. 
To be even therefore with their enemy, they 
are but too apt to diffuse his infamy as far as 
their own reputation ; and perhaps triumph in 
secret, that they have it in their power to make 
his name the scoff and derision of after-ages. 
This, I say, they are too apt to do. For some- 
times they resent the exposing of their little 
affectations or slips in writing, as much as 
wounds upon their honour. The first are trifles 
they should laugh away, but the latter deserves 
their utmost severity. 

I must confess a warmth against the buf- 
fooneries mentioned in the beginning of this 
paper, as they have so many circumstances to 
aggravate their guilt. A licence for a man to 
stand up in the schools of the prophets, in a 
grave decent habit, and audaciously vent his 
obloquies against the doctors of our church, 
and directors of our young nobility, gentry 
and clergy, in their hearing and before their 
eyes : to throw calumnies upon poor defence- 
less women, and offend their ears with nauseous 
ribaldry, ar.«J name their names at length in a 
public theatre, when a queen is upon the throne : 
such a licence as this never yet gained ground 
in our playhouses ; and I hope will not need a 

* Anthony Wood, author of th /TUiense Oxoniensis, a 
valuable collection of the lives of writers and bishops edu- 
cated at Oxford, 2 vols, folio, l6Q\. 

law to forbid it. Were I to advise in this 
matter, I should represent to the orator how 
noble a field there lay before him for panegyric ; 
what a happy opportunity he had of doing jus- 
tice to the great men who once were of that 
famous body, or now shine forth in it ; nor 
should I neglect to insinuate the advantages 
he might propose by gaining their friendship, 
whose worth, by a contrary treatment, he will 
be imagined either not to know, or to envy. 
This might rescue the name from scandal; 
and if, as it ought, this performance turned 
solely upon matters of wit and learning, it 
might have the honour of being one of the 
first productions of the magnificent printing 
house, just erected at Oxford. 

This paper is written with a design to make 
my journey to Oxford agreeable to me, where 
I design to be at the Public Act. If my advice 
is neglected, I shall not scruple to insert in 
the Guardian whatever the men of letters and 
genius transmit to me, in their own vindication; 
and I hereby promise that I myself will draw 
my pen in defence of all injured women. 

No. 73.] Thursday , June 4, 1713. 

In amore hsc insunt omnia. 

Ter. Enn. Act. i. Sc. 1. 
All these things are inseparable from love. 

It is a matter of great concern that there 
come so many letters to me, wherein I see 
parents make love for their children, and, 
without any manner of regard to the season of 
life, and the respective interests of their pro- 
geny, judge of their future happiness by the 
rules of ordinary commerce. When a man 
falls in love in some families, they use him as 
if his land was mortgaged to them, and he 
cannot discharge himself, but by really making 
it the same thing in an unreasonable settle- 
ment, or foregoing what is dearer to him than 
his estate itself. These extortioners are of all 
others the most cruel, and the sharks, who 
prey upon the inadvertency of young heirs, are 
more pardonable than those who trespass upon 
the good opinion of those who treat with them 
upon the foot of choice and respect. The fol- 
lowing letters may place in the reader's view 
uneasinesses of this sort, which may perhaps 
be useful to some under the circumstances 
mentioned by my correspondents. 

* To Nestor Ironside, Esq. 
From a certain town in Cumberland, May 21. 
' It is impossible to express the universal 
satisfaction your precautions give in a country 
so far north as ours ; and indeed it were im- 
pertinent to expatiate in a case that is by no 
means particular to ourselves, all mankind, 



[No. 73 

who wish well to one another, being equally 
c o n cern ed in their success. However, as all 

nations hive not the genius, and each parti- 
( ular in. m has his different views and taste, 
we northerns cannot but acknowledge our ob- 
ligations in a more especial manner, for your 
matrimonial precautions, which we more im- 
mediately are interested in. Our climate has 
ever been recorded as friendly to the conti- 
nuation of our kind; and the ancient histories 
are not more full of their Goths and Vandals, 
that in swarms overspread all Europe, than 
modern story of its Yorkshire hostlers and at- 
torneys, who are remarkably eminent and be- 
neficial in every market-town, and most inns 
of this kingdom. I shall not here presume to 
enter, with the ancient sages, into a particular 
reasoning upon the case, as whether it proceeds 
from the cold temper of the air, or the parti- 
cular constitutions of the persons, or both ; 
from the fashionable want of artifice in the 
women, and their entire satisfaction in one 
conquest only, or the happy ignorance in the 
men, of those southern vices which effeminate 

1 From this encomium, I do not question 
but by this time you infer me happy already 
in the legal possession of some fair one, or in 
a propable way of being so. But alas ! neither 
is my case, and from the cold damp which this 
minute seizes upon my heart, I presage never 
will. What shall I do ? To complain here is 
to talk to winds, or mortals as regardless as 
they. The tempestuous storms in the neigh- 
bouring mountains, are not more relentless, 
or the crags more deaf, than the old gentle- 
man is to my sighs and prayers. The lovely 
Pastorella indeed hears and gently sighs, but 
it is only to increase my tortures ; she is too 
dutiful to disobey a father ; and I neither able, 
nor forward, to receive her by an act of dis- 

* As to myself, my humour, until this acci- 
dent to ruffle it, has ever been gay and thought- 
less, perpetually toying amongst the women, 
dancing briskly, and singing softly. For I take 
it, more men miscarry amongst them for hav- 
ing too much than too little understanding. 
Pastorella seems willing to relieve me from 
my frights ; and by her constant carriage, by 
admitting my visits at all hours, has convinced 
all hereabouts of my happiness with her, and 
occasioned a total defection amongst her for- 
mer lovers, to my infinite contentment. Ah ! 
Mr. Ironside, could you but see in a calm 
evening the profusion of ease and tenderness 
oetwixt us '. The murmuring river that glides 
gently by, the cooing turtles in the neighbour- 
ing groves, are harsh compared to her more 
-un.ful voice. The happy pair, first joined in 
Paradise, not more enamoured walked ! more 
sweetly loved ! Hut alas ! what is all this ! an 
tin ternary Joy, iu which we trifle away our pre- 

cious time, without coming together for ever. 
That must depend upon the old gentleman, 
who sees I cannot live without his daughter, 
and knows 1 cannot, upon his terms, be ever 
happy with her. I beg of you to send for us 
all up to town together, that we maybe heard 
before you (for we all agree in a deference to 
your judgment) upon these heads, Whether 
the authority of a father should not accom- 
modate itself to the liberty of a free-born Eng- 
lish woman ? 

1 Whether, if you think fit to take the old 
gentleman into your care, the daughter may 
not choose her lover for her Guardian ? 

* Whether all parents are not obliged to 
provide for the just passions of their children 
when grown up, as well as food and raiment 
in their tender years ? 

1 These and such points being unsettled in 
the world, are cause of great distraction, atvd 
it would be worthy your great age and expe- 
rience, to consider them distinctly for the be- 
nefit of domestic life. All which, most vener- 
able Nestor, is humbly submitted by all your 
northern friends, as well as 

* Your most obedient, and 

* devoted humble servant, 


1 We who subscribe this, are man and wife, 
and have been so these fifteen years : but you 
must know we have quarrelled twice a day ever 
since we came together, and at the same time 
have a very tender regard for one another. We 
observe this habitual disputation has an ill 
effect upon our children, and they lose their 
respect towards us from this jangling of ours. 
We lately entered into an agreement, that from 
that time forward, when either should fall into 
passion, the party angry should go into an- 
other room, and write a note to the other by 
one of the children, and the person writ to, 
right or wrong, beg pardon ; because the wri- 
ting to avoid passion, is in itself an act of kind- 
ness. This little method, with the smiles of 
the messengers, and other nameless incidents 
in the management of this correspondence 
with the next room, has produced inexpressible 
delight, made our children and servants cheer- 
ful under our care and protection, and made 
us ourselves sensible of a thousand good qua- 
lities we now see in each other, which could 
not before shine out, because of our mutual 

1 Your humble servants, 


' P. S. Since the above, my wife is gone out 
of the room, and writes word by Billy, that she 
would have in the above letter, the words 
" jangling of ours," changed into the words, 
" these our frequent debates." I allow of the 
amendment, and desire you would understand 
accordingly, that we never jangled, but went 

No. 74.J 



into frequent debates, which were always held 
in a committee of the whole house.* 

* To Nestor Ironside, Esq. 

' We married men reckon ourselves under 
your ward, as well as those who live in a less 
regular condition. You must know, I have a 
wife, who is one of those good women who are 
never very angry, or very much pleased. My 
dear is rather inclined to the former, and will 
walk about in soliloquy, dropping sentences to 
herself of management, saying " she will say 
nothing, but she knows when her head is laid 
what — " and the rest of that kind of half ex- 
pressions. I am never inquisitive to know 
what is her grievance, because I know it is 
only constitution. I call her by the kind ap- 
pellation of My Gentle Murmur, and I am so 
used to hear her, that I believe I could not 
sleep without it. It would not be amiss if you 
communicated this to the public, that many 
who think their wives angry, may know they 
are only not pleased, and that very many come 
into this world, and go out of it at a very good 
old age, without having ever been much trans- 
ported with joy or grief in their whole lives. 
' Your humble servant, 


' I am now three and twenty, and in the 
utmost perplexity how to behave myself towards 
a gentleman whom my father has admitted to 
visit me as a lover. I plainly perceive my father 
designs to take advantage of his passion to- 
wards me, and require terms of him which will 
make him fly off. I have orders to be cold to 
him in all my behaviour ; but if you insert this 
letter in the Guardian, he will know that dis- 
tance is constrained. I love him better than 
life, am satisfied with the offer he has made, 
and desire him to stick to it, that he may not 
hereafter think he has purchased me too dear. 
My mother knows I love him, so that my 
father must comply. 

* Your thankful ward, 


* P. S. I give my service to him, and desire 
the settlement may be such as shows I have 
my thoughts fixed upon my happiness in being 
his wife rather than bis widow.' 

No. 74.] Friday, June 5, 1713. 

Magne Parens, sancta quam majestate verenrius I 


Great Parent ! how majestic ! how adorable ! 

I will make no apology for preferring this 
letter, and the extract following, to any thing 
else which 1 could possibly insert. 

♦ 6IR, Cambridge, May 31. 

' You having been pleased to take notice of 
what you conceived excellent in some of our 
English divines, I have here presumed to send 
a specimen, which, if I am not mistaken, may, 
for acuteness of judgment, ornament of speech, 
and true sublime, compare with any of the 
choicest writings of the ancient fathers or doc- 
tors of the church, who lived nearest to the 
apostles' times. The subject is no less than 
that of God himself ; and the design, besides 
doing some honour to our own nation, is to 
show by a fresh example, to what a height and 
strength of thought a person, who appears not 
to be by nature endued with the quickest parts, 
may arrive, through a sincere and steady prac- 
tice of the Christian religion ; I mean, as taught 
and administered in the church of England : 
which will, at the same time, prove that the 
force of spiritual assistance is not at all abated 
by length of time, or the iniquity of mankind ; 
but that if men were not wanting to them- 
selves, and (as our excellent author speaks) 
could but be persuaded to conform to our 
church's rules, they might still live as the pri- 
mitive Christians did, and come short of none 
of those eminent saints for virtue and holiness. 
The author from whom this collection is made, 
is bishop Beveridge, vol. ii. serm. 1. 


In treating upon that passage in the book of 
Exodus, where Moses being ordered to lead the 
children of Israel out of Egypt, he asked God 
what name he should mention him by to that 
people, in order to dispose them to obey him ; 
and God answered, * I Am that I Am ;' and 
bade him tell them, ' I Am hath sent me unto 
you ;' the admirable author thus discourses : 
* God having been pleased to reveal himself to 
us under this name or title, " I Am that I Am," 
he thereby suggests to us, that he would not 
have us apprehend of him, as of any particular 
or limited being, but as a being in general, or 
the Being of all beings ; who giveth being to, 
and therefore exerciseth authority over, all 
things in the world. He did not answer Moses, 
" I am the great, the living, the true, the 
everlasting God," he did not say, " I am the 
almighty creator, preserver, and governor, of 
the whole world," but " I Am that I Am :" in- 
timating, that if Moses desired such a name of 
God as might fully describe his nature as in 
itself, that is a thing impossible, there being no 
words to be found in any language, whereby to 
express the glory of an infinite being, especially 
so as that finite creatures should be able fully 
to conceive it. Yet, however, in these words 
he is pleased to acquaint us what kind of 
thoughts he would have us entertain of him . 
insomuch, that could we but rightly apprehend 
what is couched under, and intended by them, 
we bhould doubtless have as high and true 
conceptions of God as it is possible for creatures 



[\o. ;•». 

to have.' The answer. given suggests farther 

to us these following notions of the most high 
God. ' First, tliat he is one being, existing in 
and of himself: his unity is implied in that he 
siitli, " I ;" his existence in that he saith, 
" I Am ;" his existence in and of himself, in 
that he saith, " I Am that I Am," that is, " I 
am in and of myself," not receiving- any thing 

from, nor depending upon any other. The 

same expression implies, that as God is only 
one, so that he is a most pure and simple be- 
ing; for here, we see, he admits nothing into 
the manifestation of himself but pure essence, 
saying, " I Am that 1 Am," that is, heing itself, 
without any mixture or composition. And 
therefore we must not conceive of God, as made 
up of several parts, or faculties, or ingredients, 
but only as one who " is that he is," and 
whatsoever is in him is himself : And although 
we read of several properties attributed to him 
in scripture, as wisdom, goodness, justice, &c. 
we must not apprehend them to be several 
powers, habits, or qualities, as they are in us ; 
for as they are in God, they are neither distin- 
guished from one another, nor from his nature 
or essence, in whom they are said to be. In 
whom, I say, they are said to be : for to speak 
properly, they are not in him, but are his very 
essence, or nature itself; which acting seve- 
rally upon several objects, seems to us to act 
from several properties or perfections in him ; 
whereas all the difference is only in our dif- 
ferent apprehensions of the same thing. God 
in himself is a most simple and pure act, and 
therefore cannot have any thing in him, but 
what is that most simple and pure act itself ; 
which seeing it bringeth upon every creature 
what it deserves, we conceive of it as of several 
divine perfections in the same Almighty Being. 
Whereas God, whose understanding is infinite 
as himself, doth not apprehend himself under 
the distiuct notions of wisdom, or goodness, or 
justice, or the like, but only as Jehovah : And 
therefore, in this place, he doth not say, " I 
am wise, or just, or good," but simply, " I Am 
that I Am."' 

Having thus offered at something towards 

the explication of the first of these mysterious 

sayings in the answer God made to Moses, 

when he designed to encourage him to lead his 

people out of Egypt, he proceeds to consider 

the other, whereby God calls himself absolutely 

I Ant.' Concerning which he takes notice, 

that though, " I Am" be commonly a verb of 

thfl first person, yet it is here used as a noun 

substantive, or proper name, and is the nomi- 

C8SC to another verb of the third person 

in these words, " I Am hath sent me unto you." 

A itrange expression I Hut when God speaks 
«»r himself, he cannot be confined to grammar; 

mils, being infinitely above and beyond the 
reaeh el nil languages it. the world. And 

therefore, it is do wonder that when he would 

reveal himself, he goes out of our common way 
of speaking one to another, and expresseth 
himself in a way peculiar to himself, and sueh 
as is suitable and proper to his own nature 
and glory. 

1 Hence, therefore, as when he speaks of 
himself and his own eternal essence, he saith, 
"1 Am that I Am ;" so when he speaks Of 
himself, with reference to his creatures, and 
especially to his people, he saith, " I Am." 
He doth not say " I am their light, their life, 
their guide, their strength, or tower," but only 
" I Am :" He sets as it were his hand to a 
blank, that his people may write under it what 
they please that is good for them. As if he 
should say, " Are they weak ? I am Strength. 
Are they poor ? I am Riches. Are they in 
trouble? I am Comfort. Are they sick? I am 
Health. Are they dying ? I am Life. Have 
they nothing ? I am All Things. I am Wisdom 
and Power, I am Justice and Mercy. I am 
Grace and Goodness, I am Glory, Beauty, Ho- 
liness, Eminency, Supereminency, Perfection, 
All- sufficiency, Eternity, Jehohah, I Am. What- 
soever is suitable to their nature, or convenient 
for them in their several conditions, that J am. 
Whatsoever is amiable in itself, or desirable 
unto them, that 1 am. Whatsoever is pure 
and holy ; whatsoever is great or pleasant ; 
whatsoever is good or needful to make men 
happy ; that 1 am." So that, in short, G>d 
here represents himself unto us as a universal 
good, and leaves us to make the application 
of it to ourselves, according to our several 
wants, capacities, and desires, by saying only 
in general, " I Am.'" 

Again, page 27, he thus discourses : ' There 
is more solid joy and comfort, more real delight 
and satisfaction of mind, in one single thought 
of God, rightly formed, than all, the riches, 
and honours, and pleasures of this world, put 
them all together, are able to afford. — Let us 
then call in all our scattered thoughts from all 
things here below, and raise them up and unite 
them all to the most high God; apprehending 
him under the idea, image, or likeness of any 
thing else, but as infinitely greater, and higher, 
and better than all things; as one existing in 
and of himself, and giving essence and exist- 
ence to all things in the world besides himself; 
as one so pure and simple that there is nothing 
in him but himself, but essence and being 
itself; as one so infinite and omnipotent, that 
wheresoever any thing else is in the whole 
world, there he is, and beyond the world, where 
nothing else is, there all things are, because he 
is there, as one so wise, so knowing, so omni- 
scient, that he at this very moment, and always, 
sees what all the angels are doing in heaven ; 
what all the fowls are doing in the air; what 
all the fishes are doing in the waters ; what 
all the devils are doing in hell ; what all the 
men and beasts, and the very insects, are doing 

No. 75.] 



upon earth ; as one so powerful and omnipo- 
tent, that he can do whatsoever he will, only 
by willing it should be done; as one so great, 
so good, so glorious, so immutable, so tran- 
scendent, so infinite, so incomprehensible, so 
eternal, what shall I say? so Jehovah, that 
the more we think of him, the more we admire 
him, the more we adore him, the more we love 
him, the more we may and ought ; our highest 
conceptions of him being as much beneath him, 
as our greatest services come short of what we 
owe him. 

' Seeing therefore we cannot think of God 
so highly as he is, let us think of him as highly 
as we can : and for that end let us get above 
ourselves, and above the world, and raise up 
our thoughts higher and higher, and higher 
still, and when we have got them up as high 
as possibly we can, let us apprehend a Being 
infinitely higher than the highest of them; 
and then finding ourselves at a loss, amazed, 
confounded at such an infinite height of infi- 
nite perfections, let us fall down in humble anil 
hearty desires to be freed from those dark 
prisons wherein we are now immured, that we 
may take our flight into eternity, and there 
(through the merits of our blessed Saviour) see 
this infinite Being face to face, and enjoy him 
for ever.' 

No. 75.] Saturday, June 6, 1713. 

Hie est, ant nusquam, quod quaerimus. 

Hor. Lib. 1. Ep. xvii. 30. 

— Here, or no where, we may hope to find 
What we desire. Creech. 

This paper shall consist of extracts from two 
great divines, but of very different genius. The 
one is to be admired for convincing the under- 
standing, the other for inflaming the heart. 
The former urges us in this plain and forcible 
manner to an inquiry into religion, and prac- 
tising its precepts. 

* Suppose the world began some time to be; 
it must either be made by counsel and design, 
that is, produced by some being that knew 
what it did, that did contrive it and frame it 
as it is ; which it is easy to conceive, a being 
that is infinitely good, and wise, and powerful, 
might do: but this is to own a God. Or else 
the matter of it being supposed to have been 
always, and in continual motion and tumult, 
it at last happened to fall into this order, and 
the parts of matter, after various agitations, 
were at length entangled and knit together in 
this order, in which we see the world to be. 
But can any man think this reasonable to 
imagine, that in the infinite variety which is 
in the world, all things should happen by 
chance, as well, and as orderly, as the greatest 
wisdom could have contrived them ? Whoever 

can believe this, must do it with his will, and 
not with his understanding. 

* Supposing the reasons for and against the 
principles of religion were equal, yet the dan- 
ger and hazard is so unequal, as would sway a 
prudent man to the affirmative. Suppose a 
man believe there is no God, nor life after this, 
and suppose he be in the right, but not certain 
that he is (for that I am sure in this case is 
impossible) ; all the advantage he hath by this 
opinion relates only to this world and this pre- 
sent time; for he cannot be the better for it 
when he is not. Now what advantage will it 
be to him in this life ? He shall have the more 
liberty to do what he pleaseth ; that is, it fur- 
nisheth him with a stronger temptation to be 
intemperate, and lustful, and unjust, that is, 
to do those things which prejudice his body, 
and his health, which cloud his reason, and 
darken his understanding, which will make 
him enemies in the world, will bring him into 
danger. So that it is no advantage to any 
man to be vicious ; and yet this is the greatest 
use that is made of atheistical principles; to 
comfort men in their vicious courses. But if 
thou hast a mind to be virtuous, and temperate, 
and just, the belief of the principles of religion 
will be no obstacle, but a furtherance to thee 
in this course. All the advantage a man can 
hope for, by disbelieving the principles of reli- 
gion, is to escape trouble and persecution in 
this world, which may happen to him upon 
account of religion. But supposing there be 
a God, and a life after this ; then what a vast 
difference is there of the consequences of these 
opinions ! As rcuch as between finite and infi- 
nite, time and eternity. 

* To persuade men to believe the scriptures, 
I only offer this to men's consideration : If 
there be a God, whose providence governs the 
world, and all the creatures in it, is it not 
reasonable to think that he hath a particular 
care of men, the noblest part of this visible 
world ? And seeing he hath made them capable 
of eternal duration, that he hath provided for 
their eternal happiness, and sufficiently revealed 
to them the way to it, and the terms and con- 
ditions of it! Now let any man produce any 
book in the world, that pretends to be from 
God, and to do this, that for the matter of it 
is so worthy of God, the doctrines whereof are 
so useful, and the precepts so reasonable, and 
the arguments so powerful, the truth of all 
which was confirmed by so many great and 
unquestionable miracles, the relation of whi^h 
has been transmitted to posterity in public and 
authentic records, written by those who were 
eye and ear witnesses of what they wrote, and 
free from suspicion of any worldly interest and 
design ; let any produce a book like to this, in 
all these respects ; and which, over and besides, 
hath, by the power and reasonableness of the 
doctrines contained in it, prevailed so nairacu 



[No. 76. 

kMMly in the WOrW, by weak find inconsiderable 
means, in opposition to all the wit and power 
of the world, sod under such discouragements 
as DO other religion «as ever assaulted with; 
let <ii\ man bring forth such a book, and he 
bath my leave to believe it as soon as the Bible. 
But if there be none such, as I am well assured 
there is not, then every one that thinks God 
hath revealed himself to men, ought to em- 
brace and entertain the doctrine of the holy 
scriptures, as revealed by God. 

4 And now having presented men with such 
arguments and considerations as are proper, 
and I think sufficient to induce belief, I think 
it not unreasonable to entreat and urge men 
diligently and impartially to consider these 
matters; and if there be weight in these con- 
siderations to sway reasonable men, that they 
would not suffer themselves to be biassed by 
prejudice, or passion, or interest, to a contrary 
persuasion. Thus much I may with reason de- 
sire of men; for though men cannot believe 
what they will, yet men may, if they will, con- 
sider things seriously and impartially, and yield 
or w ithhold their assent, as they shall see cause, 
after a thorough search and examination. 1 

1 If any man will offer a serious argument 
against any of the principles of religion, and 
will debate the matter soberly, as one that 
considers the infinite consequences of these 
things one way or other, and would gladly 
be satisfied, he deserves to be heard what he 
can say ; but if a man will turn religion into 
raiilery, and confute it by two or three bold 
jests, he doth not make religion, but himself, 
ridiculous, in the opinion of all considerate 
men, because he sports with his life. 

1 So that it concerns every man that would 
not trifle away his soul, and fool himself into 
irrecoverable misery, with the greatest serious- 
ness to inquire into these things, whether they 
be so, or no, and patiently to consider the ar- 
guments that are brought for them. 

1 And when you are examining these matters, 
do not take into consideration any sensual or 
worldly interest; but deal fairly and impar- 
tially with yourselves. Think with yourselves 
that you have not the making of things true 
and false, that the principles of religion are 
< ither true or false, before you think of them. 
The truth of things is already fixed; either 
there i> a God, or no God; either your soids 
are immortal, or they are not ; either the scrip- 
turei He i divine revelation, or an imposture; 
one "f these is certain and necessary, and they 
are DOt now to he altered. Things will not 
Comply with your conceits, and bend themselves 
to your interests: therefore do not think what 
you would bare to be; but consider impartially 

what is.' 

The other great writer is particularly useful 

in bii rapturoui soliloquies, wherein he thinks 
of the Deity with the highest admiration, and 

beholds himself with the most contrite lowli- 
ness. ' My present business,' says he, ' is to 
treat of God, his being and attributes; but 
" who is sufficient for these things ?" At least, 
who am I, a silly worm, that 1 should take 
upon me to speak of him, by whom alone I 
speak ; and being myself but a finite sinful 
creature, should strive to unveil the nature of 
the infinite and Most Holy God! Alas! I can- 
not so much as begin to think of him, but 
immediately my thoughts are confounded, my 
heart is perplexed, my mind amazed, my head 
turns round, my whole soul seems to be un- 
hinged and overwhelmed within me. His 
mercy exalts me: His justice depresseth me: 
His wisdom astonisheth me: His power af- 
frights me: His glory dazzles mine eyes: 
and " by reason of his highness," as Job speaks, 
I cannot endure: But the least glimpse of 
Him makes me " abhor myself and repent in 
dust and ashes" before Him.' 

No. 76.] Monday, June 8, 1713. 

Solos aio bene vlvere, quorum 

Consplcitur nitidis fundata pecunia villis. 

Hot. Lib. 1. Ep. xv. 45. 

•Tin se are blest and only those, 

Whose stately house their hidden treasure shows. 


I kver thought it my duty to preserve peace 
and love among my wards. And since 1 have 
set up for a universal Guardian, 1 have laid 
nothing more to heart than the differences and 
quarrels between the landed and the trading 
interests of my country, which indeed compre- 
hend the whole. 1 shall always contribute, to 
the utmost of my power, to reconcile these in- 
terests to each other, and to make them both 
sensible that their mutual happiness depends 
upon their being friends. 

They mutually furnish each other with all 
the necessaries and conveniencies of life ; the 
land supplies the traders with corn, cattle, 
wool, aud generally all the materials, either for 
their subsistence or their riches; the traders 
in return provide the gentlemen with houses, 
clothes, and many other things, without which 
their life at best would be uncomfortable. Yet 
these very interests are almost always clashing; 
the traders consider every high duty upon any 
part of their trade as proceeding from jealousy 
in the gentlemen of their rivaling them too 
fast; and they are often enemies on this ac- 
count. The gentlemen, on the other hand, 
think they can never lay too great a burden 
upon trade, though in every thing they eat 
aud drink and wear, they are sure to bear the 
greatest part themselves. 

I shall endeavour as much as possible, to 
remove this emulation between the parties, 
and in the first place to convince the traders, 
that in many instances high duties maybe laid 

No. 76.] 



upon their imports, to en.arge the general 
trade of the kingdom. For example, if there 
should he laid a prohibition, or high duties 
which shall amount to a prohibition, upon the 
imports from any other country which takes 
from us a million sterling every year, and re- 
turns us nothing else but manufactures for the 
consumption of our own people, it is certain 
this ought to be considered as the increase of 
our trade in general; for if we want these 
manufactures, we shall either make them our- 
selves, or, which is the same thing, import 
them from other countries in exchange for our 
own. In either of which cases, our foreign or 
inland trade is enlarged, and so many more of 
our own people are employed and subsisted for 
that money which was annually exported, that 
is, in all probability, a hundred and fifty thou- 
sand of our people, for the yearly sum of one 
million. If our traders would consider many 
of our prohibitions or high duties in this light, 
they would think their country and themselves 
obliged to the landed interest for these re- 

Again, gentlemen are too apt to envy the 
traders every sum of money they import, and 
gain from abroad, as if it was so much loss to 
themselves ; but if they could be convinced, 
that for every million that shall be imported 
and gained by the traders, more than twice 
that sum is gained by the landed interest, 
they would never be averse to the trading part 
of the nation. To convince them, therefore, 
that this is the fact, shall be the remaining 
part of this discourse. 

Let us suppose then, that a million, or if 
you please, that twenty millions were to be 
imported, and gained by trade : to what uses 
could it be applied, and which would be the 
greatest gainers, the landed or the trading 
interest ? Suppose it to be twenty millions. 

It cannot at all be doubted, that a part of 
the afore-mentioned sum would be laid out in 
luxury, such as the magnificence of*buildings, 
the plate and furniture of houses, jewels, and 
rich apparel, the elegance of diet, the splendour 
of coaches and equipage, and such other things 
as are an expense to the owners, and bring in 
no manner of profit. But because it is seldom 
seen, that persons who by great industry have 
gained estates, are extravagant in their luxury; 
and because the revenue must be still sufficient 
to support the annual expense, it is hard to 
conceive that more than two of the twenty 
millions can be converted into this dead stock, 
at least eighteen must still be left to raise an 
annual interest to the owners ; and the revenue 
from the eighteen millions, at six per centum, 
will be little more than one million per annum. 

Again, a part of the twenty millions is very 
likely to be. converted to increase the stock of 
our inland trade, in which is comprehended 
that upon all our farms. This is the trade 

which provides for the annual consumption of 
our people, and a stock of the value of two 
years' consumption is generally believed to be 
sufficient for this purpose. If the eighteen 
millions above-mentioned will not raise a re- 
venue of more than one million per annum, it 
is certain that no more than this last value 
can be added to our annual consumption, and 
that two of .the twenty millions will be suffi- 
cient to add to the stock of our inland trade. 
Our foreign trade is considered upon another 
foot; for though it provides in part for the 
annual consumption of our own people, it pro- 
vides also for the consumption of foreign na- 
tions. It exports our superfluous manufactures, 
and should make returns of bullion, or other 
durable treasure. Our foreign trade for forty 
years last past, in the judgment of the most 
intelligent persons, has been managed by a 
stock not less than four, and not exceeding 
eight millions, with which last sum they think 
it is driven at this time, and that it cannot be 
carried much farther, unless our merchants 
shall endeavour to open a trade to 'Terra Aus- 
tralis incognita,' or some place that would be 
equivalent. It will therefore be a very large 
allowance, that one of the twenty millions can 
be added to the capital stock of our foreign 

There may be another way of raising interest, 
that is, by laying up, at a cheap time, corn or 
other goods or manufactures that will keep, for 
the consumption of future years, and when the 
markets may happen to call for them at an 
advanced price. But as most goods are perish- 
able, and waste something every year, by which 
means a part of the principle is stili lost, and 
as it is seldom seen that these engrossers get 
more than their principal, and the common 
interest of their money, this way is so preca- 
rious and full of hazard, that it is very unlikely 
any more than three of the twenty millions 
will be applied to engrossing. It were to be 
wished the engrossers were more profitable 
traders for themselves ; they are certainly very 
beneficial for the commonwealth; they are a 
market for the rich in a time of plenty, and 
ready at hand with relief for the poor in a 
time of dearth. They prevent the exportation 
of many necessaries of life, when they are very 
cheap ; so that we are not at the charge of 
bringing them back again, when they are very 
dear. They save the money that is paid to 
foreign countries for interest and warehouse 
room ; but there is so much hazard, and so 
little profit in this business, that if twenty 
millions were to be imported, scarce three of 
them would be applied to the making maga- 
zines for the kingdom. 

If any of the money should be lent at interest 
to persons that shall apply the same to any of 
the purposes above-mentioned, it is still the 
same thing. If I have given good reasons for 



[No. 7! 

what I have said, no more than bight of the 
twenty millions can be applied cither to our 
dead stock of luxury, our stock in inland or 
foreign trade, or our stores or magazines. So 
tint still there will remain twelve millions, 
which are now no otherwise to he disposed of 
than in buying of lands or houses, or our new 
parliamentary funds, or in being lent out at 
interest upon mortgages of those securities, or 
to persons who have uo other ways to repay 
the value than by part of the things themselves. 
The question then is, what effect these twelve 
millions will have towards reducing the inte- 
rest of money, or raising the value of estates; 
for as the former grows less, the latter will 
ever rise in proportion. For example, while 
the interest of money is five per cent, per 
annum, a man lends two thousand pounds to 
raise a revenue of one hundred pounds per 
annum, by the interest of his money; and for 
the same reason he gives two thousand pounds 
or more, to purchase an estate of one hundred 
pounds per annum. Again, if the interest of 
money shall fall one per cent, he must he 
forced to lend two thousand four hundred 
pounds to gain the revenue of one hundred 
pounds per annum, and for the same reason 
he must give at least two thousand four hun- 
dred pounds to purchase an estate of the same 
yearly rent. Therefore if these twelve millions 
newly gained shall reduce one per cent, of the 
present interest of money, they must of neces- 
sity increase every estate at least four years' 
value in the purchase. 

It is ever easier to meet with men that will 
borrow money than sell their estates. An evi- 
dence of this is, that we never have so good a 
revenue by buying, as by lending. The first 
thing therefore that will be attempted with 
these twelve millions, is to lend money to those 
that want it. This can hardly fail of reducing 
one per cent, of the present interest of money, 
and consequently of raising every estate four 
years' value in the purchase. 

For in all probability all the money or value 
DOW in England, not applied to any of the uses 
above-menVioned, and which therefore lies dead, 
or affords no revenue to the owners, until it 
can be disposed of to such uses, does not ex- 
ceed twelve millions; yet this sum, whatever 
it is, is sufficient to keep down money to the 
present interest, and to hold up lands to their 
present value. One would imagine then, if 
this sum should be doubled, if twelve millions 
c\t inordinary should be added to it, they should 
reduce half the present interest of money, and 
double the present value of estates. But it will 
easily Dfl allowed they must reduce one per 
'int. of the present interest of money, and add 
the value of four years' rent to the purchase of 
every estate. 

To confirm the belief of this, an argument 
might he- taken from what really happened in 

the province of Holland before the year one 
thousand six hundred and seventy. I think it is 
in sir William Temple's Observations upon the 
United Netherlands. The government there 
was indebted about thirteen millions, and paid 
the interest of five per cent, per annum. They 
had got a sum of money, I think not above a 
million, with which they prepared to discharge 
such a part of the principal. The creditors 
were so unable to find so good an interest else- 
where, that they petitioned the States to keep 
their money, with an abatement of one per- 
cent, of their interest. The same money was 
offered to the same number of other creditors 
with the same success, until one per cent, of 
their whole interest was abated, yet at last such 
a part of the principal was discharged. And 
when this sum came to be lent to private per- 
sons, it had the same effect ; there one pi r 
cent, of the common interest was abated 
throughout the whole province, as well be- 
tween subject and subject, as between the sub- 
jects and their governors. And nothing is so 
notorious, as that the value of lands in that 
country has risen in proportion, and that es- 
tates are sold there for thirty years' value of 
their whole rents. It is not then to be doubted, 
that twelve millions extraordinary to be lent 
at interest, or purchase lands, or government 
securities, must have the like effect in England, 
at least that lands will rise four years' rent in 
every purchase above their present value. And 
how great an improvement must this be of the 
landed interest? 

The rents of England, according to the pro- 
portion of the land-tax, should be little more 
than eight millions, yet perhaps they may be 
twelve. If there is made an addition of four 
years' value in every purchase, this, upon all 
the rents of England, amounts to forty-eight 
millions. So that, by the importation and 
clear gain of twenty millions by trade, the 
landed interest gains an improvement of forty- 
eight millions, at least six times as much as all 
other interests joined together. 

I should think this argument, which I have 
endeavoured to set in a clear light, must needs 
be sufficient to show, that the landed and the 
trading interests cannot in reality but be 
friends to each other. 

No. 77.] Tuesday, June 9, 1713. 

— Certain voto pete fmem. 

llor. Lib. 1. F.p.ii. 56. 

To wishes fix an end. Crrcr/i. 

The writers of morality assign two sorts of 
goods, the one is in itself desirable, the other 
is to be desired, not on account of its own ex- 
cellency, but for the sake of some other thing 
which it is instrumental to obtain. These are 
usually distinguished by the appellations of end 

No. 770 



and means. We are prompted by nature to 
desire the former, but that we have any ap- 
petite for the latter is owing to choice and de- 

But as wise men engage in the pursuit of 
means, from a farther view of some natural 
good with which they are conuected ; fools, 
who are acted by imitation and not by rea- 
son, blindly pursue the means, without any 
design or prospect of applying them. The re- 
sult whereof is, that they eutail upon them- 
selves the anxiety and toil, but are debarred 
from the subsequent deli»hts which arise to 
wiser men ; since their views not reaching the 
end, terminate in those things, which although 
they have a relative goodness, yet, considered 
absolutely, are indifferent, or, it may be, evil. 

The principle of this misconduct is a certain 
shortsightedness in the mind ; and as this de- 
fect is branched forth into innumerable errors 
in life, and hath infected all ranks and con- 
ditions of men ; so it more eminently appears 
in three species, the critics, misers, and free- 
thinkers. I shall endeavour to make good this 
observation with regard to each of them: And 
first, of the critic. 

Profit and pleasure are the ends that a rea- 
sonable creature would propose to obtain by 
study, or indeed by any other undertaking. 
Those parts of learning which relate to the 
imagination, as eloquence and poetry, produce 
an immediate pleasure in the mind. And sub- 
lime and useful truths, when they are conveyed 
in apt allegories or beautiful images, make 
more distinct and lasting impressions; by 
which means the fancy becomes subservient to 
the understanding, and the mind is at the 
same time delighted and instructed. The ex- 
ercise of the understanding in the discovery of 
truth, is likewise attended with great pleasure, 
as well as immediate profit. It not only 
strengthens our faculties, purifies the soul, 
subdues the passions; but besides these ad- 
vantages, there is also a secret joy that flows 
frcm intellectual operations, proportioned to 
the nobleness of the faculty, and not the less 
affecting because inward and unseen. 

But the mere exercise of the memory as 
such, instead of bringing pleasure or imme- 
diate benefit, is a thing of vain irksomeness 
and fatigue, especially when employed in the 
acquisition of languages, which is of all others 
the most dry and painful occupation. There 
must be therefore something further proposed, 
or a wise man would never engage in it. And, 
indeed, the very reason of the thing plainly 
intimates that the motive which first drew men 
to affect a knowledge in dead tongues, was 
that they looked on them as means to convey 
more useful and entertaining knowledge into 
their minds. 

There are, nevertheless, certain critics, who, 
seeing that Greek and Latin are in request, 

join in a thoughtless pursuit of those lan- 
guages, without any further view. They look 
on the ancient authors, but it is with an eye 
to phraseology, or certain minute particulars 
which are valuable for no other reason but be- 
cause they are despised and forgotten by the 
rest of mankind. The divine maxims .of mo- 
rality, the exact pictures of human life, the 
profound discoveries in the arts and sciences, 
just thoughts, bright images, sublime senti 
ments, are overlooked, while the mind is learn- 
edly taken up in verbal remarks. 

Was a critic ever known to read Plato with 
a contemplative mind, or Cicero, in order 
to imbibe the noble sentiments of virtue and 
a public spirit, which are conspicuous in the 
writings of that great man; or to peruse the 
Greek or Roman historians, with an intention 
to form his own life upon the plan of the illus- 
trious patterns they exhibit to our view ? Plato 
wrote in Greek. Cicero's Latin is fine. And 
it often lies in a man's way to quote the an- 
cient historians. 

There is no entertainment upon earth more 
noble and befitting a reasonable mind, than 
the perusal of good authors; or that better 
qualifies a man to pass his life with satisfac- 
tion to himself, or advantage to the public. 
But where men of short views and mean souls 
give themselves to that sort of employment 
which nature never designed them for, they 
indeed keep one another in countenance; but 
instead of cultivating and adorning their own 
minds, or acquiring an ability to be useful to 
the world, they reap no other advantage from 
their labours, than the dry consolation arising 
from the applauses they bestow upon each 

And the same weakness, or defect of the 
mind from whence pedantry takes its rise, does 
likewise give birth to avarice. Words and mo- 
ney are both to be regarded as only marks of 
things; and as the knowledge of the one, so 
the possession of the other is of no use, unless 
directed to a further end. A mutual com- 
merce could not be carried on ami/ng men, if 
some common standard had not been agreed 
upon, to which the value of all the various 
products of art and nature were reducible, and 
which might be of the same use in the convey- 
ance of property, as words are in that of ideas. 
Gold, by its beauty, scarceness, and durable 
nature, seems designed by Providence to a pur- 
pose so excellent and advantageous to man- 
kind. Upon these considerations that metal 
came first into esteem. But such who cannot 
see beyond what is nearest in the pursuit, be- 
holding mankind touched with an affection 
for gold, and being ignorant of the true rea- 
son that introduced this odd passion into hu- 
man nature, imagine some intrinsic worth in 
the metal to be the cause of it. Hence the 
same men who, had they been turned towards 

1 23 


[No. 78. 

IfaminEj would have employed themselves in 
laying up words in tlieir memory, are by a dif- 
f( -ri'iit application employed to as much pur- 
pose, in treasuring up gold in their coffers. 
They differ only in the object; the principle 
on which they act, and the inward frame of 
mind, is the same in the critic and the miser. 
And upon a thorough observation, our mo- 
dern sect of free-thinkers will be found to 
labour under the same defect with those two in- 
glorious species. Their short views are termi- 
nated in the next objects, and their specious 
pretences for liberty and truth, are so many 
instances of mistaking the means for the end. 
But the setting these points in a clear light 
must be the subject of another paper. 

No. 78.] Wednesday, June 10, 1713. 


Unde parentnr opes ; quid alat, formetqne poetam. 
Hor. Ars Poet. ver. 306. 

will teacn to write, 

Tell what the duty of a poet is, 

Wherein his wealth and ornament consist, 

And how he may be form'd, and how improv'd. 


It is no small pleasure to me, who am zea- 
lous in the interests of learning, to think I may 
have the honour of leading the town into a 
very new and uncommon road of criticism. As 
that kind of literature is at present carried on, 
it consists only in a knowledge of mechanic 
rules which contribute to the structure of dif- 
ferent sorts of poetry; as the receipts of good 
housewives do to the making puddings of flour, 
oranges, plums, or any other ingredients. Jt 
would, methinks, make these my instructions 
more easily intelligible to ordinary readers, if 
1 discoursed of these matters in the style in 
which ladies learned in economics, dictate to 
their pupils for the improvement of the kitchen 
and larder. 

I shall begin with epic poetry, because the 
critics agree it is the greatest work human na- 
ture is capable of. I know the French have 
already laid down many mechauical rules for 
compositions of this sort, but at the same time 
they cut off almost all undertakers from the 
possibility of ever performing them; for the 
first qualification they unanimously require in 
a poet, is a genius. I shall here endeavour 
(for the benefit of my countrymen) to make it 
manifest, that epic poems may be made 'with- 
out a genius,' nay, without learning, or much 
reading. This most necessarily be of great use 
to all those poets who confess they never read, 
and of whom the world is convinced they never 
.earn. What Molierc observes of making a 
dinner, that any man can do it with money, 
and if a professed cook cannot without, he has 
his art for nothing; the same may be said of 
making a poem, it is easily brought about by 

him that has a genius, but the skill likes in 
doing it without one. In pursuance of this 
end, I shall present the reader with a plain 
and certain recipe, by which even sonnetteers 
and ladies may be qualified for this grand per- 

I know it will be objected, that one of the 
chief qualifications of an epic poet, is to be 
knowing in all arts and sciences. But this 
ought not to discourage those that have no 
learning, as long as indexes and dictionaries 
may be had, which are the compendium of all 
knowledge. Besides, since it is an established 
rule, that none of the terms of those arts and 
sciences are to be made use of, one may ven- 
ture to affirm, our poet cannot impertinently 
offend in this point. The learning which will 
be more particularly necessary to him, is the 
ancient geography of towns, mountains, and 
rivers : for this let him take Cluverius, value 

Another quality required is a complete skill 
in languages. To this I answer, that it is noto- 
rious persons of no genius have been oftentimes 
great linguists. To instance in the Greek, of 
which there are two sorts ; the original Greek, 
and that from which our modern authors trans- 
late. I should be unwilling to promise impos- 
sibilities, but modestly speaking, this may he 
learned in about an hour's time with ease. I 
have known one, who became a sudden pro- 
fessor of Greek, immediately upon application 
of the left-hand page of the Cambridge Homer 
to his eye. It is in these days with authors 
as with other men, the well-bred are familiarly 
acquainted with them at first sight; and as it 
is sufficient for a good general to have surveyed 
the ground he is to conquer, so it is enough 
for a good poet to have seen the author he is 
to be master of. But to proceed to the pur- 
pose of this paper. 

A Receipt to make an Epic Poem. 


'Take out of any old poem, history book, 
romance, or legend, (for instance, Geoffry of 
Monmouth, or don Belianis of Greece) those 
parts of story which afford most scope for long 
descriptions. Put these pieces together, and 
throw all the adventures you fancy into one 
tale. Then take a hero whom you may choose 
for the sound of his name, and put him into 
the midst of these adventures. There let him 
work for twelve books ; at the end of which 
you may take him out ready prepared to con- 
quer, or to marry ; it being necessary that the 
conclusion of an epic poem be fortunate.' 

To make an Episode. — ' Take any remaining 
adventure of your former collection, in which 
you could no way involve your hero ; or any 
unfortunate accident that was too good to be 
thrown away; and it will be of use applied to 
any other person, who may be lost and eva 

No. 78.] 



porate in the course of the work, without the 
least damage to the composition.' 

For the Moral and Allegory. — ' These you 
may extract out of the fahle afterwards, at 
your leisure. Be sure you strain them suffi- 


* For those of the hero, take all the best 
qualities you can find in all the celebrated he- 
roes of antiquity; if they will not be reduced 
to a consistency, lay them all on a heap upon 
him. But be sure they are qualities which 
your patron would be thought to have : and, 
to prevent any mistake which the world may 
be subject to, select from the alphabet those 
cap'tal letters that compose his name, and set 
them at the head of a dedication before your 
poem. However, do not absolutely observe 
the exact quantity of these virtues, it not being 
determined, whether or no it be necessary for 
the hero of a poem to be an honest man. — For- 
the under characters, gather them from Homer 
and Virgil, and change the names as occasion 


* Take of deities, male and female, as many 
as you can use. Separate them into two equal 
parts, and keep Jupiter in the middle. Let 
Juno put him in a ferment, and Venus mollify 
him. Remember on all occasions to make use 
of volatile Mercury, if you have need of de- 
vils, draw them out of Milton's Paradise, and 
extract your spirits from Tasso. The use of 
these machines is evident ; for since no epic 
poem can possibly subsist without them, the 
wisest way is to reserve them for your greatest 
necessities. When you cannot extricate your 
hero by any human means, or yourself by your 
own wits, seek relief from heaven, and the 
gods will do your business very readily. This 
is according to the direct prescription of Horace 
in his Art of Poetry : 

Nee dens intcrgit, nisi dignus vindiee Nodus 
Incident ver. 101. . 

Never presume to make a god appear, 
But for a business worthy of a god. 


* That is to say, a poet should never call upon 
the gods for their assistance, but when he is in 
great perplexity.' 


For a Tempest. — * Take Eurus, Zephyr, 
Auster, and Boreas, and cast them together in 
o?ie verse. Add to these of rain, lightning, 
and of thunder (the loudest you can) quantum 
sufficit. Mix your clouds and billows well to- 
gether until the} foam, and thicken your de- 
scription here and there with a quicksand. 
Brew your tempest wsll in your head, before 
you set it a blowing.' 

For a Battle. — ' Pick a large quantity o c 
images and descriptions from Homer's Iliads, 
with a spice or two of Virgil, and if there re- 
main any overplus you may lay them by for a 
skirmish. Season it well with similes, and it 
will make an excellent battle.' 

For Burning 1 a Town. — ' If such a descrip- 
tion be necessary, because it is certain there is 
one in Virgil, Old Troy is ready burnt to your 
hands. But if you fear that would be thought 
borrowed, a chapter or two of the Theory of 
the Conflagration, well circumstanced, and 
done into verse, will be a good succedaneuro.* 

As for Similes and Metaphors, they may 
be found all over the creation; the most ig- 
norant may gather them, but the danger is in 
applying them. For this advise with your book- 


(I mean the diction.) * Here it will do well 
to be an imitator of Milton, for you will find 
it easier to imitate him in this, than any thing 
else. Hebraisms and Grecisms are to be found 
in him, without the trouble of learning the 
languages. I knew a painter, who (like our 
poet) had no genius, make his daubings to be 
thought originals by setting them in the smoke. 
You may in the same manner give the venera- 
ble air of antiquity to your piece, by darkening 
it up and down with Old English. With this 
you may be easily furnished upon any occasion, 
by the dictionary commonly printed at the end 
of Chaucer.* 

I must not conclude, without cautioning all 
writers without genius in one material point, 
which is, never to be afraid of having too much 
fire in their works. I should advise rather to 
take their warmest thoughts, and spread them 
abroad upon paper; for they are observed to 
cool before they are read. 

No. 79.] Thursday, June 11, 1713. 

Praeclara et pulchra minantem 

Vivere nee recte, nee suaviter 

Hor. Lib. 1. Ep. viii. 3. 

[ make a noise, a gaudy show, 

1 promise mighty things, I nobly strive ; 

Yet what an ill, unpleasant life I live ! Creech. 

It is an employment worthy a reasonable 
creature, to examine into the disposition of 
men's affections towards each other, and as far 
as one can, to improve all tendencies to good 
nature and charity. No one could be unmoved 
with this epistle, which I received the other 
day from one of my correspondents, and which 
is full of the most ardent benevolence. 

' To the Guardian. 
' I seldom read your political, your critical, 
your ludicrous, or if you will call them so, your 



[No. 70. 

polite paters, but when I observe any tiling 
whi' h 1 think written for the advancement of 
good will amongst men, and laying; before them 
objects of charity, I am very zealous for the 
promotion of so honest a design. Believe me, 
sir, want of wit or wisdom, is not the infirmity 
nf this age ; it is the shameful application of 
both that is the crying evil. As for my own 
part, I am always endeavouring at least to be 
better, rather than richer, or wiser. But I never 
lamented that I was not a wealthy man so 
heartily as the other day. You must under- 
stand that I now and then take a walk of mor- 
tification, and pass a whole day in making 
myself profitably sad. I for this end visit the 
hospitals about this city, and when I have 
rambled about the galleries at Bedlam, and 
seen for an hour the utmost of all lamentable 
objects, human reason distracted ; when I have 
from grate to grate offered up my prayers for 
a wretch who has been reviling me, for a figure 
that has seemed petrified with anguish, for a 
man that has held up his face in a posture of 
adoration toward heaven to utter execrations 
and blasphemies; I say, when I have beheld 
all these things, and thoroughly reflected on 
them, until J have startled myself out of my 
present ill course, I have thought fit to pass 
to the observation of less evils, and relieve my- 
self by going to those charitable receptacles 
about this town, appointed only for bodily dis- 
tresses. The gay and frolic part of mankind 
are wholly unacquainted with the numbers of 
their fellow- creatures, who languish under pain 
and agony, for want of a trifle out of that ex- 
pense by which those fortunate persons pur- 
chase the gratification of a superfluous passion, 
or appetite. 1 ended the last of these pilgri- 
mages which I made, at St. Thomas's hospital 
in Southwark. I had seen all the variety of 
woe which can arise from the distempers which 
attend human frailty ; but the circumstance 
which occasioned this letter, and gave me the 
quickest compassion, was beholding a little boy 
often years of age, who was just then to be 
expelled the house as incurable. My heart 
melted within me to think what would become 
of the poor child, who, as 1 was informed, had 
not a farthing in the world, nor father, nor 
mother, nor friend to help it. The infant saw 
my sorrow for it, and came towards me, and 
bid me speak, that it might die in the hout»e. 

' Alas ! There are crowds cured in this place, 
ami the strictest care taken, in the distribution 
of the charity, for wholesome food, good physic, 
and tender care in behalf of the patients ; but 
the provision is not large enough for those 
whom tlievdo not. despair of recovering, which 
mak.s it necessary to turn out the incurable, 
fur the sake of those Whotn they can relieve. 
J wa. informed tins wan the fate of many in a 
year, as well as of this poor child, who I sup- 
pose) corrupted away yet alive in the streets. 

lie was to be sure removed when he was only 
capable of giving offence, though avoided when 
still an object of compassion. There are not 
words to give mankind compunction enough 
on such an occasion ; but I assure you 1 think 
the miserable have a property in the superfluous 
possessions of the fortunate ; though 1 despair 
of seeing right done them until the day wherein 
those distinctions shall cease for ever, and they 
must both give an account for their behaviour 
under their respective sufferings and enjoy- 
ments. However, you would do your part as 
a guardian, if you would mention, in the most 
pathetic terms, these miserable objects, and 
put the good part of the world in mind of exert- 
ing the most noble benevolence that can be 
imagined, in alleviating the few remaining 
moments of the incurable. 

* A geutleman who belonged to the hospital, 
was saying, he believed it would be done as 
soon as mentioned, if it were proposed that a 
ward might be erected for the accommodation 
of such as have no more to do in this world, 
but resign themselves to death. I know no 
readier way of communicating this thought to 
the world, than by your paper. If you omit 
to publish this, I shall never esteem you to be 
the man you pretend; and so recommending 
the incurable to your guardianship, 
' I remain, Sir, 

4 Your most humble servant, 


It must be confessed, that if one turns One's 
eyes round these cities of London and West- 
minster, one cannot overlook the exemplary 
instances of heroic charity, in providing re- 
straints for the wicked, instructions for the 
young, food and raiment for the aged, with 
regard also to all other circumstances and re- 
lations of human life ; but it is to be lamented 
that these provisions are made only by the 
middle kind of people, while those of fashion 
and power are raised above the species itself, 
and are unacquainted or unmoved with the 
calamities of others. But, alas! how monstrous 
is this hardness of heart ! How is it possible 
that the returns of hunger and thirst should not 
importune men, though in the highest afflu- 
ence, to consider the miseries of their fellow- 
creatures who languish under necessity. But 
as I hintea just now, tne distinctions of man- 
kind are almost wholly to be resolved into those 
of the rich and the poor ; for as certainly as 
wealth gives acceptance and grace to all that 
its possessor says or does ; so poverty creates 
disesteem, scorn, and prejudice, to all the un- 
dertakings of the indigent. The necessitous 
man has neither hands, lips, or understanding, 
for his own or friend's use, but is in the same 
condition with the sick, with this difference 
only, that his is an infection no man will re- 
lieve, or assist, or if he does, it is seldom with 
so much pity as contempt, and rather for th« 

Ko. 80.] 



ostentation of the physician, than compassion 
ou the patient. It is a circumstance, wherein 
a man finds all the good he deserves inacces- 
sible, all the ill unavoidable; and the poor 
hero is as certainly ragged, as the poor villain 
hanged. Under these pressures the poor man 
speaks with hesitation, undertakes with irre- 
solution, and acts with disappointment. He 
is slighted in men's conversations, overlooked 
in their assemblies, and beaten at their doors. 
But from whence, alas, has he this treatment ? 
from a creature that has only the supply of, 
but not an exemption from, the wants, for 
which he despises him. Yet such is the unac- 
countable insolence of man, that he will not 
see that he who is supported, is in the same 
class of natural necessity with him that wants 
a support; and to be helped implies to be in- 
digent. In a word, after all you can say of a 
man, conclude that he is rich, aud you have 
made him friends ; nor have you utterly over- 
thrown a man in the world's opinion, until you 
have said he is poor. This is the emphatical 
expression of praise and blame : for men so 
stupidly forget their natural impotence and 
waut, that riches and poverty have taken in 
our imagination the place of innocence and 

Reflections of this kind do but waste one s 
being, without capacity of 'helping the dis- 
tressed ; yet though I know no way to do any 
service to my brethren under such calamities, 
I cannot help having so much respect for them, 
as to suffer with them in a fruitless fellow- 

No. 80.] Friday, June 12, 1713. 

Coeleftibns Ii ae. Vlrg. yEh. i. 11. 

Anger iu heav'nly nii:x!s. 

I have found by experience, that it is im- 
possible to talk distinctly without defining the 
words of which we make use. There is not a 
term in our language which wants explanation 
so much as the word Church. One would 
think when people utter it, they should have 
in their minds ideas of virtue and religion ; 
but that important monosyllable drags all the 
other words in the language after it, and it is 
made use of to express both praise and blame, 
according to the character of him who speaks 
it. By this means it happens, that no one 
knows what his neighbour means when he says 
such a one is for or against the church. It 
has happened that the person, who is seen 
every day at church, has not been in the eye 
of the world a church-man; and he who is 
very zealous to oblige every man to frequent 
it, but himself, has been held a very good son 
of the church. This prepossession is the best 
handle imaginable for politicians to make use 
of, for managing the loves and hatreds of 

mankind, to the purposes to which they would 
lead them. But this is not a thing for fools to 
meddle with, for they only bring disesteem 
upon those whom they attempt to serve, when 
they unskilfully pronounce terms of art. I have 
observed great evils arise from this practice, 
and not only the cause of piety, but also the 
secular interest of clergymen, has extremely 
suffered by the general unexplained significa- 
tion of the word Church. 

The Examiner, upon the strength of being 
a received church-man, has offended in this 
particular more grossly than any other man 
ever did before, and almost as grossly as ever 
he himself did, supposing the allegations in 
the following letter are just. To slander any 
man is a very heinous offence ; but the crime 
is still greater, when it falls upon such as ought 
to give example to others. I cannot imagine 
how the Examiner can divest any part of the 
clergy of the respect due to their characters, 
so as to treat them as he does, without an in- 
dulgence unknown to our religion, though 
taken up in the name of it, in order to dis- 
parage such of its communicants as will not 
sacrifice their conscience to their fortunes. 
This confusion and subdivision of interests and 
sentiments among people of the same com- 
munion, is what would be a very good subject 
of mirth ; but when I consider against whom 
this insult is committed, I think it too great, 
and of too ill a consequence, to be in good 
humour on the occasion. 

* SIR, June 9, 1713. 

' Your character of universal Guardian, 
joined to the concern you ought to have for 
the cause of virtue and religion, assure me you 
will not think that clergymen when injured, 
have the least right to your protection ; and 
it is from that assurance I trouble you with 
this, to complain of the Examiner, who calum 
niates as freely as he commends, and whose 
invectives are as groundless as his panegyrics. 
' In his paper of the eighth instant, after a 
most furious invective against many noble lords, 
a considerable number of the commons, and a 
very great part of her majesty's good subjects, 
as disaffected and full of discontent, (which by 
the way, is but an awkward compliment to the 
prince, whose greatest glory it is to reign in the 
hearts of her people,) that the clergy may not 
go without their share of his resentment, he 
concludes with a most malicious reflection upon 
some of them. He names indeed nobody, but 
points' to Windsor and St. Paul's, where he 
tells us some are disrespectful to the queen, 
and enemies to her peace ; most odious cha- 
racters, especially in clergymen, whose profes- 
sion is peace, and to whose duty and affection 
her majesty has a more immediate right, by 
her singular piety and great goodness to them. 
" They have sucked in," he says, " this war 



[No. 8. 

Tike principle from their arbitrary patrons." 
Jt is not enough, it seems, to calumniate ihem, 
unless their patrons also be insulted, no less 
patrons than ;the late king and the duke of 
Marlborough. These are his arbitrary men; 
though nothing be more certain than that 
without the king, the shadow of a legal govern- 
ment had not been left to us ; nor did there 
ever live a man, who in the nature and temper 
of him, less deserved the character of arbitrary 
than the duke. How now is this terrible 
charge against those clergymen supported? 
Why, as to St. Paul's, the fact, according to 
him, is this: " Some of the church, to affront 
the q-ieen,on the day the peace was proclaimed, 
gave orders for parochial prayers only, without 
singing, as is used upon fast-days, though in 
this particular their inferiors were so very ho- 
nest to disobey them." This the Examiner 
roundly affirms after his usual manner, but 
without the least regard to truth; for it is 
fallen in my way, without inquiring, to be 
exactly informed of this matter, and therefore, 
1 take upon me in their vindication to assure 
you, that every part of what is said is absolutely 
*alse, and the truth is just the reverse. The 
inferiors desired there might be only parochial 
prayers ; but the person applied to was aware 
to what construction it might be liable, and 
therefore would not consent to the request, 
though very innocent and reasonable. The 
case was this: the procession of the ceremony 
had reached Ludgatejust at the time of prayers, 
and there was such a prodigious concourse of 
people, that one of the vergers came to the 
residentiary in waiting, to represent, that it 
would be impossible to have prayers that after- 
noon ; that the crowds all round the church 
was so great, there would be no getting in : 
but it was insisted, that there must be prayers, 
only the tolling of the bell should be deferred 
a little, until the head of the procession,' was 
got beyond the church. When the bell had 
Hone, and none of the choir appeared, but one 
to read, it was upon this again represented, 
that there could he only parochial prayers, a 
thing that sometimes happens, twice or thrice 
perhaps in a year, when, upon some allowable 
occasion, the absence of the choir-men is so 
great, as not to leave the necessary voices for 
cathedral service; which very lately was the 
case upon a performance of the thanksgiving 
music at Whitehall. So that had the prayers, 
on this occasion, been parochial only, it had 

been neither new nor criminal, but necessary 
and unavoidable, unless the Examiner can tell 
now the service may be sung decently without 
singing-men. However, to leave informers no 

room for calumny, it was expressly urged, that 

parochial prayers on such ;i day, would look 

ill, that therefore, if possible, it. should he 

avoided, and (lie service should be begun as 
usual, in hopes one or two of the choir 'might 

come in before the psalms ; and the verger 
was ordered to look out, if he could see any of 
the choir, to hasten them to their places ; and 
so it proved, two of the best voices came in 
time enough, and the service was performea 
cathedral-wise, though in a manner to bare 
walls, with an anthem suitable to the day. 
This is the fact on which the Examiner grounds 
a charge of factious and seditious principles 
against some at St. Paul's, and I am persuaded 
there is as little truth in what he charges some 
of Windsor with, though I know not certainly 
whom he means. Were I disposed to expos- 
tulate with the Examiner, I would ask him if 
he seriously thinks this be answering her ma- 
jesty's intentions? Whether disquieting the 
minds of her people is the way to calm them ? 
Or to traduce men of learning and virtue, he 
to cultivate the arts of peace? But I am too 
well acquainted with his writings not to see he 
is past correction ; nor does any thing in his pa- 
per surprise me, merely because it is false ; for 
to use his own words, " not a day passes," with 
him, " but it brings forth a mouse or a monster, 
some ridiculous lie, some vile calumuy or for- 
gery." He is almost equally false in every 
thing he says ; but it is not always equally easy 
to make his falsehood plain and palpable. And 
it is chiefly for that reason I desire you to gh e 
this letter a place in your papers, that those 
that are willing to be undeceived may leain, 
from so clear an instance, what a faithful, 
modest writer this is, who pretends to teach 
them how to think and speak of things and 
persons they know nothing of themselves. As 
this is no way disagreeable to your character 
of Guardian, your publication of it is a favour 
which I flatter myself you will not deny to, 
' Your humble servant, 

« H. A.' 

No. 81.] Saturday, June 13, 1713. 

Qtiiete ot pure atque cleg inter acta; tet.slis placlda ac 
knis recordatio. Circro. 

Flacid and soothing is the remembrance of a life passed 
with quiet, innocence, and elegance. 

The paper which was published on the thir- 
tieth of last month, ended with a piece of de- 
votion written by the archbishop of Cambray. 
It would (as it was hinted in that precaution) 
be of singtdar use for the improvement of our 
minds, to have the secret thoughts of men of 
good talents on such occasions. I shall for the 
entertainment of this day give my reader two 
pieces, which, if he is curious, will be pleasing 
for that reason, if they prove to have no other 
(licet upon him. One of them was found in 
the closet of an Athenian libertine, who lived 
many ages ago, and is a soliloquy wherein he 
contemplates his own life and actions according 

No. 8L] 



to the lights men have from nature, and the 
compunctions of natural reason. The other is 
a prayer of a gentleman who died within few 
years last past ; and lived to a very great age ; 
but had passed his youth in all the vices in 
fashion. The AtheniaL is supposed to have 
been Alcihiades, a man of great spirit, ex- 
tremely addicted to pleasures, hut at the same 
time very capahle, and upon occasion very 
attentive to business. He was by nature en- 
dued with all the accomplishments she could 
bestow ; he had beauty, wit, courage, and a 
great understanding ; but in the first bloom 
of his life was arrogantly affected with the ad- 
vantages he had over others. That temper is 
pretty visible in an expression of his: when it 
was proposed to him to learn to play upon a 
musical instrument, he answered, * It is not 
for me to give, but to receive delight.' How- 
ever, the conversation of Socrates tempered a 
strong inclination to licentiousness into reflec- 
tions of philosophy ; and if it had not the force 
to make a man of his genius and fortune wholly 
regular, it gave him some cool moments, and 
this following soliloquy is supposed by the 
learned to have been thrown together before 
some expected engagement, and seems to be 
very much the picture of the man 

' I am now wholly alone, my ears are not 
entertained with music, my eyes with beauty, 
nor any of my senses so forcibly affected, as to 
divert the course of my inward thoughts. Me- 
thinks there is something sacred in myself, 
now I am alone. What is this being of mine ? 
I came into it without my choice, and yet 
Socrates says it is to be imputed to me. In 
this repose of my senses wherein they commu- 
nicate nothing strongly to myself, I taste, me- 
thinks, a being distinct from their operation. 
Why may not then my soul exist, when she is 
wholly gone out of these organs ? I can perceive 
my faculties grow stronger, the less I admit 
the pleasures of sense ; and the nearer I place 
myself to a bare existence, the more worthy, 
the more noble, the more celestial does that 
existence appear to me. If my soul is weakened 
rather than improved by all that the body ad- 
ministers to her, she may reasonably be sup- 
posed to be designed for a mansion more suit- 
able than this, wherein what delights her 
diminishes her excellence, and that which 
afflicts her adds to her perfection. There is 
an hereafter, and I will not fear to be immor- 
tal for the sake of Athens.' 

This soliloquy is but the first dawnings of 
thought in the mind of a mere man given up 
to sensuality. The paper which I mention of 
our contemporary was found in his scrutoire 
after his death, but communicated to a friend 
or two of his in his life-time. You see in it a 
man wearied with the vanities of this life ; and 
the reflections which the success of his wit and 
gallantry bring upon his old age, are not un- 

I worthy the observation of those who possess 
the like advantages. 

* Oh, Almighty Being ! How shall I look up 
towards thee, when I reflect that I am of no 
consideration but as I have offended ? My 
existence, O my God, without thy mercy, is 
not to be prolonged in this or another world 
but for my punishment. I apprehend, Oh, my 
Maker, let it not be too late: I apprehend, 
and tremble at thy presence ; and shall I not 
consider thee, who art all goodness, but with 
terror ? Oh, my Redeemer, do thou behold 
my anguish. Turn to me, thou Saviour cf the 
world : Who has offended like me ? Oh, my 
God, I cannot fly out of thy presence, let me 
fall down in it ; I humble myself in contritiou 
of heart ; but alas ! I have not only swerved 
from thee, but have laboured against thee. 
If thou dost pardon what 1 have committed, 
how wilt thou pardon what I have made others 
commit? I have rejoiced in ill, as in a pros- 
perity. Forgive, oh my God, all who have 
offended by my persuasion, all who have trans- 
gressed by my example. Canst thou, O God, 
accept of the confession of old age, to expiate 
all the labour and industry of youth spent in 
transgressions against thee ? While I am still 
alive, let me implore thee to recall to thy 
grace all whom I have made to sin. Let, oh 
Lord, thy goodness admit of his prayer for their 
pardon, by whose instigation they have trans- 
gressed. Accept, O God, of this interval of 
age, between my sinful days and the hour of 
my dissolution, to wear away the corrupt habits 
in my soul, and prepare myself for the man- 
sions of purity and joy. Impute not to me, 
oh my God, the offences I may give, after my 
death, to those I leave behind me ; let me not 
transgress when I am no more seen ; but pre- 
vent the ill effects of my ill-applied studies, 
and receive me into thy mercy.' 

It is the most melancholy circumstance that 
can be imagined, to be on a death-bed, and 
wish all that a roan has most laboured to bring 
to pass were obliterated for ever. How em- 
phatically worse is this, than having passed all 
one's days in idleness ! Yet this is the frequent 
case of many men of refined talents. It is, 
methinks, monstrous that the love of fame, 
and value of the fashion of the world, can 
transport a man so far as even in solitude to 
act with so little reflection upon his real in- 
terest. This is premeditated madness, for it 
is an error done with the assistance of all the 
faculties of the mind. 

When every circumstance about us is a con- 
stant admonition how transient is every labour 
of man, it should, methinks, be no hard mat- 
ter to bring one's self to consider the emptiness 
of all our endeavours ; but I was not a little 
charmed the other day, when sitting with an 
old friend and communing together on such sub- 
jects, he expressed himself after this manner :— 




1 It i-. u nw o r t hy a Christum philosopher to 

i. t ai ij thing her* below stand in the least 
Competition with bis dwty. In vain is reason 
fortified by f.titlt, if it produces in our practice 
no greater effects than what reason wrought 
in mere map. 

' I contemn, (in dependence on the support 
of heaven 1 speak it) I contemn all which the 
genet ality of mankind call great and glorious. 
I will no longer tliiuk or act like a mortal, but 
consider myself as a being that commenced at 
my birth, and is to endure to all eternity. The 
accident of death will not end but improve my 
being; I will think of myself, and provide for 
myself as an immortal ; and 1 will do nothing 
now which I do not believe I shall approve a 
thousand years hence.' 

No. 8i.] Monday, June 15, 1713. 

Cedat nil conviva satnr Hor. Lib. 1. Sat. i. 110. 

Let him depart like a contended guest. 

Though men see every day people go to 
fheir long home, who are younger than them- 
selves, they are not so apt to be alarmed at 
that, as at the decease of those who have lived 
longer in their sight. They miss their ac- 
quaintance, aud are surprised at the loss of an 
habitual object. This gave me so much con- 
cern for the death of Mr. William Peer of the 
theatre-royal, who was an actor at the Re- 
storation, and took his theatrical degree with 
Betterton, Kynaston, and Harris. Though his 
station was humble, he performed it well ; and 
the common comparison with the stage and 
human life, which has been so often made, 
may well be brought out upon this occasion. 
It is no matter, say the moralists, whether 
you act a prince or a beggar, the business is 
to do your part well. Mr. William Peer dis- 
tinguished himself particularly in two charac- 
ters, which no man ever could touch but him- 
self; one of them, was the speaker of the 
prologue to the play, which is contrived in the 
tragedy of Hamlet, to awake the consciences 
of the guilty princes. Mr. William Peer spoke 
that preface to the play with such an air, as 
represented that he was an actor, and with 
such an inferior manner as only acting an 
actor, as made the others on the stage appear 
real great persons, and not representatives. 
This was a nicety in acting that none but the 
most subtle player could so much as conceive. 
I remember his speaking these words, in which 
there is no great matter but in the right ad- 
justment of the air of the speaker, with uni- 
versal applause : 

' I "it M ami tor our t Wga d y , 
Hire ItnOplQg to join rleini-ni-y, 

v. . i>. g jniu bearing patiently,' 

Hamlet says very archly upon the pronouncing 
of it, ' Is this a prologue, or a posy of a ring ?' 

However, the speaking of it got Mr. Peer more 
reputation, than those who speak the length 
of a puritan's sermon every night will ever 
attain to. Besides this, Mr. Peer got a great 
fame on another little occasion. He played 
the apothecary in Caius Marius, as it is called 
by Otway ; but Romeo and Juliet, as originally 
in Shakspeare ; it will be necessary to recite 
more out of the play than he spoke, to have a 
right conception of what Peer did in it. Marius, 
weary of life, recollects means to be rid of it 
after this manner: 

' I do remember an apothecary 
That dwelt about this rendezvous of death ! 
Meagre and very rueful were his looks, 
Sharp misery had worn him to the bones' 

When this spectre of poverty appeared, Marius 
addresses him thus : 

• I see thou art very poor. 
Thou may's! do any thing, here's fifty drachmas, 

Get me a draught of what will soonest lice 
A wretch from all his cares.' 

When the apothecary objects that it is unlaw 
ful, Marius urges, 

' Art thou so base and full of wretchedness 
Yet fear'st to die ! Famine is in thy cheeks, 
Need and oppression stareth in thy eyes, 
Contempt and beggary hang on thy back ; 
The world is not thy friend, nor the woild's laws ; 
The world affords no law to make thee rich ; 
Then be not poor, but break it, aud take this. 

Without all this quotation the reader could 
not have a just idea of the visage and manner 
which Peer assumed, when in the most lament- 
able tone imaginable he consents ; and de- 
livering the poison, like a man reduced to the 
drinking it himself, if he did not vend it, says 
to Marius, 

« My poverty, but not my will, consents; 
Take this and drink it off, the work is done.' 

It was an odd excellence, and a very parti 
cular circumstance this of Peer's, that his whole 
action of life depended upon speaking five lines 
better than any man eUe in the world. But 
this eminence lying in so narrow a compass, 
the governors of the theatre observing his 
talents to lie in a certain knowledge of pro- 
priety, and his person admitting him to shine 
only in the two above parts, his sphere of ac- 
tion was enlarged by the addition of the post 
of property-man. This officer has always 
ready, in a place appointed for him behind the 
prompter, all such tools and implements as are 
necessary in the play, and it is his business 
never to want billet-doux, poison, false money, 
thunderbolts, daggers, scrolls of parchment, 
wine, pomatum, truncheons, and wooden legs, 
ready at the call of the said prompter, accord- 
ing as his respective utensils were necessary 
for promoting what was to pass on the stage. 
The addition of this office, so importaut to 
the conduct of the whole affair of the stage, 
and the good economy observed by their pre- 
sent managers in punctual payments, made 

No. 82.] 



Mr. Peer's subsistence very comfortable. But 
it frequently happens, that men lose their 
virtue in prosperity, who were shining charac- 
ters in the contrary condition. Good fortune 
indeed had no effect on the mind, but very 
much on the body of Mr. Peer. For in the 
seveutieth year of his age he grew fat, which 
rendered his figure unfit for the utterance of 
the five lines above-mentioned. He had now 
unfortunately lost the wan distress necessary 
for the countenance of the apothecary, and 
was too jolly to speak the prologue with the 
proper humility. It is thought this calamity 
went too near him. It did not a little contri- 
bute to the shortening his days ; and, as there 
is no state of real happiness in this life, Mr. Peer 
was undone by his success, and lost all by ar- 
riving at what is the end of all other men's 
pursuits, his ease. 

I could not forbear enquiring into the effects 
Mr. Peer left behind him, but find there is no 
demand due to him from the house, but the 
following bill : 

of s. d. 
For hire of six case of pistols, 4 

A drum for Mrs. Bignall in the Pil- 
grim, - -- » - 044 
A truss of straw for the madmen, 8 
Pomatum and vermilion to grease 

the face of the stuttering cook, 8 
For boarding a setting dog two days 
to follow Mr. Johnson in Epsom 
Wells, - 6 

For blood in Macbeth, - - 3 
Raisins and almonds for a witch's 

banquet, - 8 

This contemporary of mine, whom I have 
often rallied for the narrow compass of his sin- 
gular perfections, is now a-t peace, and wants 
no further assistance from any man ; but men 
of extensive genius, now living, still depend 
upon the good offices of the town. 

I am therefore to remind my reader, that 
on this day, being the fifteenth of June, the 
Plotting Sisters is to be acted for the benefit 
of the author, my old friend Mr. D'Urfey. This 
comedy was honoured with the presence of 
king Charles the Second three of its first five 

My friend has in this work shown himself a 
master, and made not only the characters of 
the play, but also the furniture of the house 
contribute to the main design. He has made 
excellent use of a table with a carpet, and the 
key of a closet. With these two implements, 
which would, perhaps, have been overlooked 
oy an ordinary writer, he contrives the most 
natural perplexities (allowing only the use of 
these household goods in poetry) that ever were 
represented on a stage. He has also made good 
advantage of the knowledge of the stage itself; 
for in the nick of being surprised, the lovers 

are let down and escape at a trap-door. In a 
word, any who have the curiosity to observe 
what pleased in the last generation, and does 
not go to a comedy with a resolution to be 
grave, will find this evening ample food for 
mirth. Johnson, who understands what he 
does as well as any man, exposes the imper 
tinence of an old fellow, who has lost his senses, 
still pursuing pleasures, with great mastery. 
The ingenious Mr. Pinkethman is a bashful 
rake, and is sheepish without having modesty 
with .great success. Mr. Bullock succeeds 
Nokes in the part of Bubble, and in my opinion 
is not much below him : for he does excellently 
that sort of folly we call absurdity, which is 
the very contrary of wit, but, next to that, is 
of all things the properest to excite mirth. 
What is foolish is the object of pity; but ab- 
surdity often proceeds from an opinion of suf- 
ficiency, and consequently is an honest occasion 
for laughter. These characters in this play 
cannot choose but make it a very pleasant en- 
tertainment, and the decorations of singing 
and dancing will more than repay the good- 
nature of those who make an honest man a 
visit of two merry hour9 to make his following 
year unpainful. 


No. 83.] Tuesday, June 16, 1713. 

Nimirum insanus paucis vicleatnr, e6 quod 
Maxima pais hominuin morbo jaetatur oodem. 

Hor. Lib. C. Sat. iii. 120. 

Few think these mad, for most like these, 

Are sick and troubled with the same disease. 


There is a restless endeavour in the mind of 
man after happiness. This appetite is wrought 
into the original frame of our nature, and exerts 
itself in all parts of the creation that are en- 
dued with any degree of thought or sense. But 
as the human mind is dignified by a more com- 
prehensive faculty than can be found in the 
inferior animals, it is natural for men not only 
to have an eye, each to his own happiness, but 
also to endeavour to promote that of others in 
the same rank of being : and in proportion to 
the generosity that is ingredient in the temper 
of the soul, the object of its benevolence is of 
a larger and narrower extent. There is hardly 
a spirit upon earth so mean and contracted, as 
to centre all regards on its own interest, ex- 
clusive of the rest of mankind. Even the 
selfish man has some share of love, which he 
bestows on his family and his friends. A nobler 
mind hath at heart the common interest of the 
society or country of which he makes a part. 
And there is still a more diffusive spirit, whose 
being or intentions reach the whole mass of 
mankind, and are continued beyond the pre- 
sent age to a succession of future generations. 

The advantage, arising to him who hath a 
tincture of this generosity on his soul, is, that 




[No. S3- 

be i- affected with a lublimer Joy than can be 
comprehended by one \* ho is destitute of that 
noble relish. The happiness of the rest of 
mankind hath a natural connexion with that 
of a reasonable mind. And in proportion as 
the actions of each individual contribute to this 
end, be must be thought to deserve well or ill, 
both of the world, and of himself. I have in 
a late paper observed, that men who have no 
reach of thought do often misplace their affec- 
tions on the means, without respect to the end ; 
and by a preposterous desire of things in them- 
selves indifferent, forego the enjoyment of that 
happiness which those things are instrumental 
to obtain. This observation has been consi- 
dered with regard to critics and misers ; I shall 
now apply it to free-thinkers. 

Liberty and truth are the main points which 
these gentlemen pretend to have in view ; to 
proceed, therefore, methodically, 1 will endea- 
vour to show in the first place, that liberty and 
truth are not in themselves desirable, but only 
as they relate to a farther end. And secondly, 
that the sort of liberty and truth (allowing 
them those names) which our free-thinkers 
use all their industry to promote, is destructive 
of that end, viz. human happiness : and con- 
sequently that species, as such, instead of being 
encouraged or esteemed, merit the detestation 
and abhorrence of all honest men. And in the 
last place, I design to show, that under the 
pretence of advancing liberty and truth, they 
do in reality promote the two contrary evils. 

As to the first point, it has been observed 
that it is the duty of each particular person to 
aim at the happiness of his fellow-creatures; 
and that as this view is of a wider or narrower 
extent, it argues a mind more or less virtuous. 
Hence it follows, that a liberty of doing good 
actions which conduce to the felicity of man- 
kind, and a knowledge of such truths as might 
either give us pleasure in the contemplation of 
them, or direct our conduct to the great ends 
of life, are valuable perfections. But shall a 
^ood man, therefore, prefer a liberty to commit 
murder or adultery, before the wholesome re- 
straint of divine and human laws ? Or shall a 
wise man prefer the knowledge of a trouble- 
some and afflicting truth, before a pleasant 
error that would cheer his soul with joy and 
Comfort, and be attended with no ill conse- 
quences ? Surely no man of common sense 
would thank him, who had put it in his power 
to execute the sudden suggestions of a fit of 
passion or madness, or imagine himself obliged 
to a person, who, by forwardly informing him 
of ill news, had oauscd his soul to anticipate 
that sorrow which she would never have felt 
so long as the ungrateful truth lay concealed. 

Let us then respect the happiness of our 
ipecics, and in this light examine the proceed- 
ings of the free-thinkers. Prom what giants 
and monsters would these knight- errants un- 

dertake to free the world? From the tie9 that 
religion iinposeth on our minds, from the ex- 
pectation of a future judgment, and from the 
terrors of a troubled conscience, not by reform- 
ing men's lives, but by giving encouragement 
to their vices. What are those important 
truths of which they would convince mankind? 
That there is no such thing as a wise and just 
Providence ; that the mind of man is corporeal ; 
that religion is a state- trick, contrived to make 
men honest and virtuous, and to procure a 
subsistence to others for teaching and exhort- 
ing them to be so; that the good tidings of 
life and immortality, brought to light by the 
gospel, are fables and impostures ; from be- 
lieving that we are made in the image of God, 
they would degrade us to an opinion that we 
are on a level with the beasts that perish. 
What pleasure or what advantage do these 
notions bring to mankind. Is it of any use to 
the public that good men should lose the com- 
fortable prospect of a reward to their virtue ; 
or the wicked be encouraged to persist in their 
impiety, from an assurance that they shall not 
be punished for it hereafter ? 

Allowing, therefore, these men to be patrons 
of liberty and truth, yet it is of such truths, 
and that sort of liberty, which makes them 
justly be looked upon as enemies to the peace 
and happiness of the world. But upon a 
thorough and impartial view it will be found, 
that their endeavours, instead of advancing 
the cause of liberty and truth, tend only to 
introduce slavery and error among men. There 
are two parts in our nature : the baser, which 
consists of our senses and passions, and the 
more noble and rational, which is properly the 
human part, the other being common to us 
with brutes. The inferior part is generally 
much stronger, and has always the start of 
reason, which if in the perpetual struggle be- 
tween them, it were not aided from heaven by 
religion, would almost universally be vanquish- 
ed, and man become a slave to his passions, 
which, as it is the most grievous and shameful 
slavery, so it is the genuine result of that liberty 
which is proposed by overturning religion. Nor 
is the other part of their design better executed. 
Look into their pretended truths: are they 
not so many wretched absurdities, maintained 
in opposition to the light of nature and divine 
revelation by sly inuendoes and cold jests, by 
such pitiful sophisms and such confused and 
indigested notions, that one would vehemently 
suspect those men usurped the name of free- 
thinkers with the same view that hypocrites 
do that of godliness, that it may serve for 
cloak to cover the contrary defect ? 

1 shall close this discourse with a parellel re- 
flection on these three species, who seem to 
be allied by a certain agreement in mediocrity 
of understanding. A critic is entirely given 
up to the pursuit of learning; when he has 

No. 84.] 



got it, is his judgment clearer, his imagination 
livelier, or his manners more polite than those 
of other men? Is it observed that a miser, 
when he has acquired his superfluous estate, 
eats, drinks, or sleeps with more satisfaction, 
that he has a cheerfuller mind, or relishes any 
of the enjoyments of life better than his neigh- 
bours? The free-thinkers plead hard for a 
licence to think freely ; they have it : but 
what use do they make of it? Are they emi- 
nent for any sublime discoveries in any of the 
arts and sciences ? Have they been authors of 
any inventions that conduce to the well-being 
of mankind ? Do their writings show a greater 
tepth of design, a clearer method, or more 
just and correct reasoning than those of other 

There is a great resemblance in their genius ; 
but the critic and miser are only ridiculous 
and contemptible creatures, while the free- 
thinker is also a pernicious one. 

No. 84.] Wednesday, June 17, 1713. 

Noti missura cuteui nisi plena cruoris hirudo. 

Hor. Ars Poet. ver. ult. 

Sticking like leeches, till they burst with blood. 


* To the Honoured Nestor Ironside, Esq. 

' SIR, Middle Temple, June 12. 

' Presuming you may sometimes condescend 
to take cognizance of small enormities, 1 here 
lay one before you, which I proceed to without 
farther apology, as well knowing the best oom- 
pliment to a man of business is to come to the 

* There is a silly habit among many of our 
minor orators, who display their eloquence in 
the several coffee-houses of this fair city, to 
the no small annoyance of considerable num- 
bers of her majesty's spruce and loving sub- 
jects, and that is a humour they have got of 
twisting off your buttons, These ingeuious 
gentlemen are not able to advance three words 
until they have got fast hold of one of your 
buttons; but as soon as they have procured 
such an excellent handle for discourse, they 
will indeed proceed with great elocution. I 
know not how well some may have escaped, 
but for my part I have often met with them 
to my cost; having I believe within these three 
years last past been argued out of several dozens; 
insomuch that I have for some time ordered 
my tailor to bring me home with every suit a 
dozen at least of spare ones, to supply the place 
ef such as from time to time are detached as 
a help to discourse, by the vehement gentle- 
men before-mentioned. This way of holding 
a man in discourse is much practised in the 
coffee-houses within the city, and does not in- 
deed so much prevail at the politer end of the 
town. It is likewise more frequently made 
use of among the small politicians, than any 

other body of men ; I am therefore something 
cautious of entering into a controvesy with this 
species of statesmen, especially the younger 
fry ; for if you offer in the least to dissent from 
any thing that one of these advances, he im- 
mediately steps up to you, takes hold of one 
of your buttons, and indeed will soon convince 
you of the strength of his argumentation. 
1 remember, upon the news of Dunkirk's be- 
ing delivered into our hands, a brisk little 
fellow, a politician and an able engineer, had 
got into the middle of Batson's coffee-house, 
and was fortifying Graveling for the service of 
the most Christian king, with all imaginable 
expedition. The work was carried on with 
such success, that in less than a quarter of an 
hour's time, he had made it almost impregna- 
ble, and in the opinion of several worthy citi- 
zens who had gathered round him, full as 
strong both by sea and land as Dunkirk ever 
could pretend to be. I happened, however, un- 
advisedly to attack some of his outworks ; upon 
which, to show his great skill likewise in the 
offensive part, he immediately made an assualt 
upon one of my buttons, and carried it in less 
than two minutes, notwithstanding I made as 
handsome a defence as was possible. He had 
likewise invested a second, and would certainly 
have been master of that too in a very little 
time, had not he been diverted from this en- 
terprise by the arrival of a courier, who brought 
advice that his presence was absolutely neces- 
sary in the disposal of a beaver,* upon which 
he raised the siege, and indeed retired with 
some precipitation. In the coffee-houses here 
about the Temple, you may harangue even 
among our dabblers in politics for about two 
buttons a day, and many times for less. I had 
yesterday the good fortune to receive very con- 
siderable additions to my knowledge in state 
affairs, and 1 find this morning, that it has not 
stood me in above a button. In most of the 
eminent coffee-houses at the other end of the 
town, for example, to go no farther than Will's 
in Covent-garden, the company is so refined, 
that you may hear and be heard, and not be a 
button the worse for it. Besides the gentlemen 
before- mentioned, there are others who are no 
less active in their harangues, but with gentle 
services rather than robberies. These, while 
they are improving your understanding, are at 
the same time setting off your person ; they 
will new-plait and adjust your neckcloth. 

' But though I can bear with this kind of 
orator, who is so humble as to aim at the good- 
will of his hearer by being his valet de chambre, 
I must rebel against another sort of them. 
There are some, sir, that do not stick to take 
a man by the collar when they have a mind to 

* The person here alluded to was a Mr. James TIeywoorl, 
a linen draper, who was the writer of a letter in the Spec- 
tator, signed James Easy. 



[No. 85. 

persuade him. It is your business, 1 humbly 
presume, Mr. Ironside, to interpose tint :i man 

is Rot brought over to bis opponent by force 

<>l arms. It were requisite therefore that you 
should name a certain interval, which ought 

|0 be preserved between the speaker aiul him 
to whom be speaks. For sure no man has a 
right, because I am not of his opinion, lo take 
any of my clothes from me, or dress me ac- 
cording; to his own liking;. I assure you the 
most becoming- thing- to me in the world is in 
a campaign periwig, to wear one side before 
and the other cast upon the collateral shoulder. 
But there is a friend of mine who never talks 
to me but he throws that which I wear forward, 
upon my shoulder, so that in restoring it to 
its place I lose two or three hairs out of the 
lock upon my buttons; though I never touched 
him in my whole life, and have been acquainted 
with him these ten years. I have seen my 
eager friend in danger sometimes of a quarrel 
by this ill custom, for there are more young 
gentlemen who can feel, than can understand. 
Jt would be therefore a good office to my good 
friend if you advised him not to collar any man 
but one who knows what he means, and give it 
him as a standing precaution in conversation, 
that none hut a very good friend will give him 
the liberty of being seen, felt, heard, and un- 
derstood all at once. 
4 I am Sir, 
Your most humble servant, 


* F. S. I have a sister who saves herself from 
being handled by one of these manual rheto- 
ricians by giving him her fan to play with ; 
but I appeal to you in the behalf of us poor 
helpless men.' 

June 15, 1713. 

I am of opinion, that no orator or speaker in 
public or private has any right to meddle with 
any body's clothes but his own. I indulge men 
in the liberty of playing with their own hats, 
fumbling in their own pockets, settling their 
own periwigs, tossing or twisting their heads, 
and all other gesticulations which may contri- 
bute to their elocution ; but pronounce it an 
infringement of the English liberty, for a man 
to keep his neighbour's person in custody in 
order to force a hearing ; and farther declare, 
that all assent given by an auditor under such 
constraint, is of itself void and of no effect. 


N o. a. r ) . ] 77; iirsduy, June 18, 171 :>. 

Bed la decor We, qqpd optas, 

i m rets! votoqae i»<> tn.i forma repugnat 

Ovid. Met Lib. I. 488. 
mnch \..ntli, with in much beauty (oin'd, 
« IppoM ihi rtau widen thy rti irw designed, 

To suffer scandel (says somebody) is the tax 

nhich every pCTSOn of merit pays to the public, 

and my bird Veruiam finely observes; that a 
man who lias no virtue in himself, ever envies 
virtue in others. I know not how it comes to 
pass, but detraction, through all ages, has been 
found a vice which the fair sex too easily give 
in to. Not the Roman satirist could use them 
with more severity than they themselves do 
one another. Some audacious rritics, in my 
opinion, have launched out a little to far when 
they take upon them to prove, in opposition 
to history, that Lais was a woman of as much 
virtue has beauty, which violently displeasing 
the Phrynes of those times, they secretly pre- 
vailed with the historians to deliver her down 
to posterity under the infamous character of 
an extorting prostitute. But though 1 have 
the greatest regard imaginable to that softer 
species, yet am I sorry to find they have very 
little for themselves. So far are they from 
being tender of one another's reputation, that 
they take a malicious pleasure in destroying 
ir. My lady the other day, when Jack was 
asking, who could be so base to spread such 

a report about Mrs. — , answered, ' None, 

you may be sure, but a woman.' A little after, 
Dick told my lady, that he had heard Florella 
hint as if Cleora wore artificial teeth. The 
reason is, said she, because Cleora first gave 
out that Florella owed her complexion to a 
wash. Thus the industrious pretty creatures 
take pains by invention, to throw blemishes 
on each other, when they do not consider that 
there is a profligate set of fellows too ready to 
taint the character of the virtuous, or blast 
the charms of the blooming virgin. The young 
lady from whom I had the honour of receiving 
the following letter, deserves or rather claims, 
protection from our sex, since so barbarously 
treated by her own. Certainly they ought to 
defend innocence from injury who gave igno- 
rantly the occasion of its being assaulted. Had 
the men been less liberal of their applauses, 
the women had been more sparing of these 
calumnious censures. 

' To the Guardian. 

' SIR, 

4 1 do not know at what nice point you fix 
the bloom of a young lady ; hut I am one who 
can just look back upon fifteen. My father 
dying three years ago, left me under the care 
and direction of my mother, with a fortune 
not profusely great, yet such as might demand 
a very handsome settlement, if ever proposals 
of marriage should be offered. My mother, 
after the usual time of retired mourning wa3 
over, was so affectionately indulgent to me, as 
to take me along with her in all her visits; 
but still not thinking she gratified my youth 
enough, permitted me further to go with my 
relations to all the public, cheerful, but inno- 
cent entertainments, where she was too reserved 
to appear herself. The two first years of my 

No. 85.] 



teens were easy, gay, and delightful. Every 
one caressed me ; the old ladies told me how 
finely I grew, and the young ones were proud 
of my company. But when the third year had 
a little advanced, my relations used to tell my 
mother, that pretty miss Clary was shot up 
into a woman. The gentlemen began now not 
to let their eyes glance over me, and in most 
places 1 found myself distinguished ; but ob- 
served, the more I grew into the esteem of 
their sex, the more 1 lost the favour of my own. 
Some of those whom I had been familiar with, 
grew cold and indifferent; others mistook by 
design, my meaning, made me speak what 
1 never thought, and so by degrees took occa- 
sion to break off all acquaintance. There were 
several little insignificant reflections cast upon 
me, as being a lady of a great many quaint- 
nesses, and such like, which I seemed not to 
take notice of. But my mother coming home 
about a week ago, told me there was a scandal 
spread about town by my enemies, that would 
at once ruin me for ever for a beauty ; I ear- 
nestly entreated her to know it; she refused 
me, but yesterday it discovered itself. Being 
in an assembly of gentleman and ladies, one 
of the gentlemen who had been very facetious 
to several of the ladies, at last turning to me, 
' And as for you, madam, Prior has already 
given us your character, 

" That-air and harmony of shape evprcss, 
Fine by degrees, yet beautifully less."' 

f perceived immediately a malignant smile 
display itself in the countenance of some of 
the ladies, which they seconded with a scornful 
flutter of the fan ; until one of them, unable 
any longer to contain, asked the gentleman if 
he did not remember what Congreve said about 
Aurelia, for she thought it mighty pretty. He 
made no answer, but instantly repeated the 
verses : 

" The mulcibers who in the minories sweat, 
And massive bars on stubborn anvils beat: 
DefonnM themselves, yet forge those sttys of steel, 
Which arm Aurelia with a shape to kill." 

This was no sooner over, but it was easily dis- 
cernable what an ill-natured satisfaction most 
of the company took ; and the more pleasure 
they showed by dwelling upon the two last 
lines, the more they increased my trouble and 
confusion. And now, sir, after this tedious 
account, what would you advise me to ? Js 
there no way to be cleared of these malicious 
calumnies ? What is beauty worth that makes 
the possessor thus unhappy ? Why was nature 
so lavish of her gifts to me, as to make her 
kindness prove a cruelty ? They tell me my 
shape is delicate, my eyes sparkling, my lips, 
J know not what, my cheeks, forsooth, adorned 
with a just mixture of the rose and lily ; but 
I wish this face was barely not disagreeable, 
this voice harsh and unhannonious, these limbs 

only not deformed, and then perhaps I might 
live easy and unmolested, and neither raise 
love and admiration in the men, nor scandal 
and hatreJ in the women. 

' Your very humble servant, 

« CtARINA.' 

The best answer I can make my fair cor- 
respondent is, That she ought to comfort her- 
self with this consideration, that those who 
talk thus of her know it is false, but, wish they 
could make others believe it true. It is not 
they think you deformed, but are vexed that 
they themselves were not as nicely framed. 
If you will take an old man's advice, laugh, 
and be not concerned at them : they have at- 
tained what they endeavoured if they make 
you uneasy ; for it is envy that has made them 
so. I would not have you wish your shape one 
sixtieth part of an inch disproportioned, nor 
desire your face might be impoverished with 
the ruin of half a feature, though numbers of 
remaining beauties might make the loss insen- 
sible ; but take courage, go into the brightest 
assemblies, and the world will quickly confess 
it to be scandal. Thus Plato, hearing it was 
asserted by some persons that he was a very 
bad man, * I shall take care,' said he, ' to live 
so, that nobody will believe them.* 

I shall conclude this paper with a relation 
of matter of fact. A gay young gentlemen in 
the country, not many years ago, fell despe- 
rately in love with a blooming fine creature, 
whom give me leave to call Melissa. After a 
pretty long delay, and frequent solicitations, 
she refused several others of larger estates, 
and consented to make him happy. But they 
had not been married much above a twelve- 
month, until it appeared too true what Juba 

' Beauty soon grows familiar to the lover, 

Fades in the eye, and palls upon the sense.' 

Polydore (for that was his name) finding him- 
self grow every day more uneasy, and unwil- 
ling she should discover the cause, for diversion 
came up to town, and, to avoid all suspicions, 
brought Melissa along with him. After some 
stay here, Polydore was one day informed, that 
a set of ladies over their tea-table, in the circle 
of scandal, had touched upon Melissa— — And 
was that the silly thing so much talked of! 
How did she ever grow into a toast ! For their 
parts they had eyes as well as the men, but 
could not discover where her beauties lay. — 
Polydore upon hearing this, flew immediately 
home and told Melissa, with the utmost trans- 
port, that he was now fully convinced how 
numberless were her charms, since her own 
sex would not allow her any. 

' MK, IRONSIDE, Button's Coffee-house, 

' I have observed that this day you make 
mention of Will's coffee-house, as a place where 



[No. 86. 

people are too polite (0 I10KI a man in dis- 
coufM l>\ ibi button. Every body knows your 
nonour frequents this house; therefore they 
will take an advantage against ine, and say, 
if inv company was as civil as that at Will's, 
vou would say so: therefore pray your honour 
do not he afraid of doing me justice, because 
people would think it may be a conceit below 
you on this occasion to name the name of 
' Your humble servant, 


' The young poets are in the hack room, 
and take their places as you directed.' 

No. 86.] Friday, June 19, 1713. 

Coi mens diviuior, atque os 

Magna sonauiram Hor. Lib. l. Sat. iv. 43. 

With fancy high, and bold and daring (lights. 


1 To Nestor Ironside, Esq. 

' SIR, Oxford, June 16, 1713. 

' The classical writers, according to your ad- 
vice, are by no means neglected by me, while 
I pursue my studies in divinity. I am per- 
suaded that they are fountains of good sense 
and eloquence; and that it is absolutely ne- 
cessary for a young mind to form itself upon 
such models. For by a careful study of their 
style and manner, we shall at least avoid those 
faults, into which a youthful imagination is 
apt to hurry us; such as luxuriance of fancy, 
licentiousness of style, redundency of thought, 
and false ornaments. As I have been flattered 
by my friends, that 1 have some genius for 
poetry, I sometimes turn my thoughts that 
way. and with pleasure reflect, that I have 
got over that childish part of life, which de- 
lights in points and turns of wit: and that 
I can take a manly and rational satisfaction 
in that which is called paiuting in poetry. 
Whether it be that in these copyings of nature 
the object is placed in such lights and cir- 
cumstances as strike the fancy agreeably; or 
whether we are surprised to find objects that 
are absent, placed before our eyes ; or whether 
it be our admiration of the author's art and 
dexterity; or whether we amuse ourselves with 
comparing the picture and the original; or 
rather (which is most probable) because all 
these reasons concur to affect us; we are won- 
derfully charmed with these drawings after 
the life, this magic that raises apparitions in 
the fancy. 

' Landscapes or still-life work much less 
upon us than representations of the postures 
or peMtoni of living creatures. Again, those 
passions or postures strike us more or less in 

* I ' I I »i<"' kept a COftofeoOM On (lie south side of 

b lit two rl • from Covcntf arden. Hen 

ii >.x« thai die wilt of thai inn. ami lo assemble. 

proportion to the ease or violence of their mo- 
tions. A horse grazing moves us less than one 
stretching in a race, and a racer less than one 
in the fury of a battle. It is very difficult, 
I believe, to express violent motions which 
are fleeting and transitory, either in colours 
or words. In poetry it requires great spirit 
in thought, and energy in style ; which we find 
more of in the eastern poetry, than either the 
Greek or Roman. The great Creator, who 
accommodated himself to those he vouchsafed 
to speak to, hath put into the mouths of bis 
prophets such sublime sentiments and exalted 
language, as mu>t abash the pride and wit of 
man. In the book of Job, the most ancient 
poem in the world, we have such paintings and 
descriptions as I have spoken of, in great va- 
riety. 1 shall at present make some remarks 
on the celebrated description of the horse in 
that holy book, and compare it with those 
drawn by Homer and Virgil. 

' Homer hath the following similitude of a 
horse twice over in the Iliad, which Virgil hath 
copied from him ; at least he hath deviated less 
from Homer than Mr. Dryden hath from him : 

" Freed from his keepers, thus with broken reins 
The wanton courser prances o'er the plains ; 
Or in the pride of youth o'erleaps the mounds, 
And snuffs the females in forbidden grounds ; 
Or seeks his watering in the well-knowu tlood, 
To quench his thirst, and cool his fiery blood : 
lie swims luxuriant in the liquid plain, 
And o'er his shoulders flows his waving mane. ; 
He nei»hs, he snorts, he bears his head on high, 
Before his ample chest the frothy waters fly." 

' Virgil's description is much fuller than the 
foregoing, which, as I said, is only a simile ; 
whereas Virgil professes to treat of the nature 
of the horse. It is thus admirably translated : 

•■' The fiery courser, when lie hears from far 
The sprightly trumpets, and the shouts of war, 
Pricks" up his ears, and trembling with delight, 
Shifts pace, and paws; and hopes the promis'd fight. 
On his right shoulder his thick mane reclin'd, 
Ruffles at speed, and dances in the wind. 
His horny hoofs are jetty black and round : j 
His chin is double ; starting, with a bound 
lie turns the turf, and shakes the solid ground. ' 
Fire from his eyes, clouds from his nostrils ROW ; 
He bears his rider headlong on the foe." 

I Now follows that in the book of Job ; which 
under all the disadvantages of having been 
written in a language little understood ; of 
being expressed in phrases peculiar to a part 
of the world whose manner of thinking and 
speaking seems to us very uncouth ; and, above 
all, of appearing in a prose translation ; is, ne- 
vertheless, so transcendently above the heathen 
descriptions, that hereby we may percieve how 
faint and languid the images are which are 
formed by mortal authors, when compared with 
that which is figured, as it were, just as it ap- 
pears in the eye of the Creator. God speaking 
to Job, asks him, 

II Hast thou given the horse strength? hast 
thou clothed his neck with thunder? Canst 

No, 86.] 



thou make him afraid as a grasshopper ? The 
glory of his nostrils is terrible. He paweth in 
the valley, and rejoiceth in his strength. He 
goeth on to meet the armed men. He mocketh 
at fear, and is not affrighted ; neither turneth 
he back from the sword. The quiver rattleth 
against him, the glittering spear, and the shield. 
He swalloweth the ground with fierceness and 
rage ; neither believeth he that it is the sound 
of the trumpet. He saith amongst the trum- 
pets, Ha, ha ; and he smelleth the battle afar 
off; the thunder of the captains, and the 

* Here are all the great and sprightly images 
that thought can form of this generous beast, 
expressed in such force and vigour of style, 
as would have given the great wits of antiquity 
new laws for the sublime, had they been ac- 
quainted with these writings. I cannot but 
particularly observe, that whereas the classical 
poets chiefly endeavour to paint the outward 
figure, lineaments, and motions; the sacred 
poet makes all the beauties to flow from an 
inward principle in the creature he describes, 
and thereby gives great spirit and vivacity to 
his description. The following phrases and 
circumstances seem singularly remarkable : 

" Hast thou clothed his neck with thunder ?" 
Homer and Virgil mention nothing about the 
neck of the horse but his mane. The sacred 
author, by the bold figure of thunder, not only 
expresses the shaking of that remarkable beauty 
in the horse, and the flakes of hair which na- 
turally suggest the idea of lightning ; but like- 
wise the violent agitation and force of the 
neck, which in the oriental tongues had been 
flatly expressed by a metaphor less than this. 

Canst thou make him afraid as a grass- 
hopper ?" There is a twofold beauty in this ex- 
pression, which not only marks the courage of 
this beast, by asking if he can be scared ? but 
likewise raises a noble image of his swiftness, 
by insinuating, that if he could be frighted, he 
would bound away with the nirnbleness of a 

" The glory of his nostrils is terrible." This 
is more strong and concise than that of Virgil, 
which yet is the noblest line that was ever 
written without inspiration: 

" Cnllectumque premens volvit sub naribus ignem." 

Georg. iii. 85. 
" And in his nostrils rolls collected fire." 

" He rejoiceth in his strength — He mocketh 
at fear — neither believeth he that it is the 
sound of the trumpet — He saith among the 
trumpets, Ha, ha," are signs of courage as I 
said before, flowing from an inward principle. 
There is a peculiar beauty in his " not be- 
lieving it is the sound of the trumpet :" that is, 
he cannot believe it for joy ^ but when he was 
sure of it, and is " amongst the trumpets, he 
saith, Ha, ha;" he neighs, he rejoices. His 

docility is elegantly painted in his being un 
moved at the " rattling quiver, the glittering 
spear, and the shield ;" and is well imitated by 
Oppian (who undoubtedly read Job as well as 
Virgil) in his poem upon hunting: 

" How firm the manag'd war-horse keeps his ground, 
Nor breaks his order, tho' the trumpets sound ! 
With fearless eye the glittering host surveys, 
And glares directly at the helmet's blaze ! 
The master's word, the laws of war he knows, 
And when to stop, and when to charge the foes." 

■* He swalloweth the ground," is an expres- 
sion for prodigious swiftness, in use among the 
Arabians, Job's countrymen, at this day. The 
Latins have something like it : 

" Latnmque fuga consumere campum." Nemesian. 
" In flight the extended campaign to consume." 
" Carpere prata fuga. Virg. Georg. iii. 142. 

" In flight to crop the meads." 

" cainpnmqnc volatu 

Cum rapuere, pedum vestigia quaeras." Sil. ltal. 
" When in their flight the campaign they liave snatch'd 
No track is left behind." 

* It is indeed the boldest and noblest of images 
for swiftness ; nor have I met with any thing 
that comes so near it as Mr. Pope's, in Windsor 
Forest : 

" The impatient courser pants in every vein, 
And pawing, seems to beat the distant plain ; 
Hills, vales, and floods, appear already cross'd, 
And ere he starts, a thousand steps are lost." 

" He smelleth the battle afar off," and what 
follows about the shouting, is a circumstance 
expressed with great spirit by Lucan: 

'• So when the ring with joyful shouts rebounds, 
With rage and pride the imprison'd courser bounds : 
He frets, he foams, he rends his idle rein ; 
Springs o'er the fence, and headlong seeks the plain." 

' I am, Sir, 
' Your ever obliged servant, 


No. 87.] Saturday, June 20, 1713. 

Constiterant nine Thisbe, Priamns illinc, 

Inque vicem fuerat captatus anhelitus oris. 

Ovid. Met. Lib. iv. 71- 

Here i»y ram us, there gentle Thisbe, strove 

To catch each other's breath, the balmy breeze of love. 

My precautions are made up of ail that I 
can hear and see, translate, borrow, para- 
phrase, or contract, from the persons with 
whom I mingle and converse, and the authors, 
whom I read. But the grave discourses which. 
I sometimes give the town, do not win so 
much attention as lighter matters. For this 
reason it is, that I am obliged to consider vice 
as it is ridiculous, and accompanied with gal- 
lantry, else I find in a very short time I shal 
lie like waste paper on tLe tables of coffee- 
houses. Where I have taken most pains I 
often find myself least read. There 13 a spirit 



[No. 87. 

of intrigue got into all, even the meanest of 
the |« opli-, ami the very servants are hent upon 
delights, and commence oglers and languishes. 
1 happened the other day to pass by a gentle- 
man s bouse, and saw the most flippant scene 
of low love that I have ever observed. The 
maid was rubbing the windows within side of 
the house, and her humble servant the foot- 
man was so happy a man as to be employed in 
cleaning the same glass on the side toward the 
street. The wench began with the greatest 
severity of aspect imaginable, and breathing 
on the glass, followed it with a dry cloth ; her 
opposite observed her, and fetching a deep 
sigh, as if it were his .ast, with a very discon- 
solate air did the same on his side of the win- 
dow. He still worked on and languished, till 
at last hi J fair one smiled, but covered herself, 
and spreading the napkin in her hand, con- 
cealed herself from her admirer, while he took 
pains, as it were, to work through all that 
intercepted their meeting. This pretty contest 
held for four or five large panes of glass, until 
at last the waggery was turned into a humo- 
rous way of breathing in each other's faces, 
and catching the impression. The gay crea- 
tures were thus loving and pleasing their ima- 
ginations with their nearness and distance, 
until the windows were so transparent that 
the beauty of the female made the man. servant 
impatient of beholding it, and the whole house 
besides being abroad, he ran in, and they 
romped out of my sight. It may be imagined 
these oglers of no quality made a more sudden 
application of the intention of kind sighs and 
glances, than those whose education lays them 
under greater restraints, and who are conse- 
quently more slow in their advances. I have 
often observed all the low part of the town in 
love, and, taking a hackney-coach, have con- 
sidered all that passed by me in that light, as 
these cities are composed of crowds wherein 
there is not one who is not lawfully or unlaw- 
fully engaged in that passion. When one is in 
this speculation, it is not unpleasant to ob- 
serve alliances between those males and fe- 
males whose lot it is to act in public. Thus 
the woods in the middle of summer are not 
more entertaining with the different notes of 
birds, than the town is of different voices of 
the several sorts of people who act in public; 
they are divided into Masses, and crowds made 
for crowds. The hackney- coachmen, chair- 
men, and porters, are the lovers of the hawker- 
women, fruitrcsses, and milk-maids. They 
are a wild world by themselves, and have voices 
significant of their private inclinations, which 
Stranger* can lake no notice of. Thus a wench 
with fruit looks like a mad woman when she 
criei wares you see she does not carry, but 
those in the secret know that cry is only an 
assignation to a hackney- coachman who is 
driving by, and understands her. The whole 

people is in an intrigue, and the undiscerning 
passengers are unacquainted with the meaning 
of what they hear all round them. They know 
not how to separate the cries of mercenary 
traders, from the sighs and lamentations of 
languishing lovers. The common face of mo- 
desty is lost among the ordinary part of the 
world, and the general corruption of manners 
is visible from the loss of all deference in the 
low people towards those of condition. One 
order of mankind trips fast after the next above 
it, and by this rule you may trace iniquity 
from the conversations of the most wealthy, 
down to those of the humblest degree. It is 
an act of great resolution to pass by a crowd 
of polite footmen, who can rally, make love, 
ridicule, and observe upon all the passengers 
who are obliged to go by the places where they 
wait. This licence makes different characters 
among them, and there are beaus, party-men, 
and free-thinkers in livery. I take it for a rule, 
that there is no bad man but makes a bad wo- 
man, and the contagion of vice is what should 
make people cautious of their behaviour. Ju- 
venal says, there is the greatest reverence to 
be had to the presence of children ; it may be 
as well said of the presence of servants, and it 
would be some kind of virtue, if we kept our 
vices to ourselves. It is a feeble authority 
which has not the support of personal respect, 
and the dependence founded only upon their 
receiving their maintenance of us is not of 
force enough to support us against an habitual 
behaviour, for which they contemn and deride 
us. No man can be well served, but by those 
who have an opinion of his merit; and that 
opinion cannot be kept up but by an exemption 
from those faults which we would restrain in 
our dependents. 

Though our fopperies imitated are subjects 
of laughter, our vices transferred to our ser- 
vants give matter of lamentation. But there 
is nothing in which our families are so docile, 
as in the imitation of our delights. It is, there- 
fore, but common prudence to take care, that 
our inferiors know of none but our innocent 
ones. It is, methinks, a very arrogant thing 
to expect, that the single consideration of not 
offending us should curb our servants from 
vice, when much higher motives cannot mo- 
derate our own inclinations. But I began this 
paper with an observation, that the lower world 
is got into fashionable vices, and, above all, to 
the understanding the language of the eye. 
There is nothing but writing songs which the 
footmen do not practise as well as their masters. 
Spurious races of mankind, which pine in want, 
and perish in their first months of being, come 
into the world from this degeneracy. The pos- 
session of wealth and affluence seems to carry 
some faint extenuation of his guilt who is sunk 
by it into luxury; but poverty and servitude 
accompanied with the vices of wealth and li 

No. 88.] 



centiousness, is, I believe, a circumstance of 
ill peculiar to our age. This may, perhaps, be 
matter of jest, or is overlooked by those who 
do not turn their thoughts upon the actions of 
others. But from that one particular, of the 
immorality of our servants arising from the 
negligence of masters of families in their care 
of them, flows that irresistible torrent of dis- 
asters which spreads itself through all human 
life. Old age oppressed with beggary, youth 
drawn into the commission of murders and 
robberies, both owe their disaster to this evil. 
If we consider the happiness which grows out 
of a fatherly conduct towards servants, it would 
encourage a man to that sort of care, as much 
as the effects of a libertine behaviour to them 
would affright us. 

Lycurgus is a man of that noble disposition, 
that his domestics, in a nation of the greatest 
liberty, enjoy a freedom known only to them- 
selves who live under his roof. He is the 
banker, the counsel, the parent, of all his nu- 
merous dependents. Kindness is the law of 
his house, and the way to his favour is being 
gentle, and well-natured to their fellow-ser- 
vants. Every one recommends himself, by ap- 
pearing officious to let their patron know the 
merit of others under his care. Many little 
fortunes have streamed out of his favour; and 
his prudence is such, that the fountain is not 
exhausted by the channels from it, but its way 
cleared to run new meanders. He bestows 
with so much judgment, that his bounty is the 
increase of his wealth ; all who share his favour 
are enabled to enjoy it by his example, and he 
has not only made, but qualified many a man 
to be rich. 

No. 88.] Monday, June %% 1713. 

Mens agitat molem Cirg. Sun. vi. 727. 

A mind informs the mass. 

To one who regards things with a philoso- 
phical eye, and hath a soul capable of being 
delighted with the sense that truth and know- 
ledge prevail among men, it must be a grate- 
ful reflection to think that the sublimest 
truths, which, among the heathens, only here 
and there one of brighter parts and more lei- 
sure than ordinary could attain to, are now 
grown familiar to the meanest inhabitants of 
these nations. 

Whence came this surprising change, that 
regions formerly inhabited by ignorant and 
savage people, should now outshine ancient 
Greece, and the other eastern countries so re- 
nowned of old, in the most elevated notions of 
theology and morality? Is it the effect of our 
own parts and industry? Have our common 
mechanics more refined understandings than 
the ancient philosophers ? It is owing to the 
God of truth, who came down from heaven, 

and condescended to be himself our teacher. 
It is as we are Christians, that we profess more 
excellent and divine truths than the rest of 

If there be any of the free-thinkers who are 
not direct atheists, charity would incline one 
to believe; them ignorant of what is here ad- 
vanced. And it is for their information that 
I write this paper, the design of which is to 
compare the ideas that Christians entertain of 
the being and attributes of a God, with the 
gross notions of the heathen world. Is it pos- 
sible for the mind of man to conceive a more 
august idea of the Deity than is set forth in 
the holy scriptures ? I shall throw together 
some passages relating to this subject, which 
I propose only as philosophical sentiments, to 
be considered by a free-thinker. 

' Though there be that are called gods, yet 
to us there is but one God. He made the 
heaven, and heaven of heavens, with all theii 
host ; the earth, and all things that are 
therein ; the seas, and all that is therein ; he 
said, Let them be, and it was so. He hath 
stretched forth the heavens. He hath founded 
the earth, and hung it upon nothing. He 
hath shut up the sea with doors, and said, 
Hitherto shalt thou come, and no farther, and 
here shall thy proud waves be staid. The Lord 
is an invisible spirit, in whom we live, and 
move, and have our being. He is the fountain 
of life. He preserveth man and beast. He 
giveth food to all flesh. In his hand is the 
soul of every living thing, and the breath of 
all mankind. The Lord maketh poor and 
maketh rich. He bringeth low and lifteth up. 
He killeth and maketh alive. He woundeth 
and he healeth. By him kings reign, and 
princes decree justice; and not a sparrow falleth 
to the ground without him. All angels, au- 
thorities, and powers, are subject to him. He 
appointeth the moon for seasons, and the sun 
knoweth his going down. He thundereth with 
his voice, and directeth it under the whole 
heaven, and his lightning unto the ends of the 
earth. Fire and hail, snow and vapour, wind 
and storm, fulfil his word. The Lord is king 
for ever and ever, and his dominion is an ever- 
lasting dominion. The earth and the heavens 
shall perish, but thou, O Lord, remainest. 
They all shall wax old, as doth a garment, and 
as a vesture shalt thou fold them up, and they 
shall be changed ; but thou art the same, and 
thy years shall have no end. God is perfect 
in knowledge ; his understanding is infinite. 
He is the Father of lights. He looketh to the 
ends of the earth, and seeth under the whole 
heaven. The Lord beholdeth all the children 
of men from the place of his habitation, and 
considered! all their works. He knoweth our 
down-sitting and up-rising. He compasseth 
our path, and counteth our steps. He is ac- 
quainted with all our ways ; and when we enter 



[No. 89, 

our clottta and shut our door, he seeth us. He 
knoweth the tilings that come into our mind, 
every one "' tbemj and no thought can be 
witbholden from him. The Lord is good to 
;ill, and his tender mercies are over all his 
\s.)rks. He is a father of the fatherless, and 
a judge of the widow. He is the God of peace, 
,,.,' Father of mercies, and the God of all com- 
fort and consolation. The Lord is great, and 
we know him not; his greatness is unsearch- 
able. Who but he hath measured the waters 
in the hollow of his hand, and meted out the 
heavens with a span ? Thine, O Lord, is the 
greatness, and the power, and the glory, and 
the victory, and the majesty. Thou art very 
great, thou art clothed with honour. Heaven 
is thy throne, and earth is thy footstool.' 

Can the mind of a philosopher rise to a more 
just and magnificent, and at the same time a 
more amiable idea of the Deity than is here 
set forth in the strongest images and most 
emphatical language? And yet this is the 
language of shepherds and fishermen. ■ The il- 
literate Jews, and poor persecuted Christians 
retained these noble sentiments, while the po- 
lite and powerful nations of the earth v/ere 
given up to that sottish sort of worship, of 
which the following elegant description is ex- 
tracted from one of the inspired writers. 

' Who hath formed a god, and molten an 
image that is profitable for nothing? The 
smith with the tongs both worketh in the coals 
and fashioneth it with hammers, and worketh 
it with the strength of his arms: yea he is 
hungry, and his strength faileth. He drinketh 
no water and is faint. A man planteth an ash, 
and the rain doth nourish it. He burnetii 
part thereof in the fire. He roasteth roast. He 
warmeth himself. And the residue thereof he 
maketh a god. He faileth down unto it, and 
worshippeth it, and prayeth unto it, and saith, 
Deliver me, for thou art my god. None con- 
sidereth m his heart, I have burnt part of it 
in the fire, yea also, I have baked bread upon 
the coals thereof; I have roasted flesh aud 
eaten it, and shall J make the residue thereof 
an abomination ? Shall I fall down to the 
stock of a tree ?' * 

In such circumstances as these, for a man 
to declare for free-thinking, and disengage 
himself from the yoke of idolatry, were doing- 
honour to human nature, and a work well be- 
coming the great assertors of reason. But in 
a church, where our adoration is directed to 
the Supreme Being, and (to say the least) 
where is nothing eithl r in the object or manner 
of worship i hat contradicts the light of nature ; 
there, under the pretence of free-thinking, to 
rail a( the religious institutions of their coun- 
boweth an. undistinguishing genius that 
mistake opposition for freedom of thought. 


And indeed, notwithstanding the pretences of 
some few among our free-thinkers, I can hardly 
think there are men so stupid and inconsistent 
with themselves, as to have a serious regard 
for natural religion, and at the same time use 
their utmost endeavours to destroy the credit 
of those sacred writings, which, as they have 
been the means of bringing these parts of the 
world to the knowledge of natural religion, so 
in case they lose their authority over the minds 
of men, we should of course sink into the same 
idolatry which we see practised by other un- 
enlightened nations. 

If a person who exerts himself in the modern 
way of free-thinking be not a stupid idolater, 
it is undeniable that he contributes all he can 
to the making other men so, either by igno- 
rance or design; which lays him under the 
dilemma, I will not say of being a fool or knave, 
but of incurring the contempt or detestation 
of mankind. 

No. 89.1 Tuesday, June 23, 1713. 

Ignous est ollis vigor, ct coelcstis origo 
Seminibiis Vtrg, £n. vi. 730. 

They boast ethereal vigour, and are forna'd 
liom seeds of heavenly birth. 

The same faculty of reason and understand- 
ing which placeth us above the brute part of 
the creation, doth also subject our minds to 
greater and more manifold disquiets than 
creatures of an inferior rank are sensible of. 
It is by this that we anticipate future disasters, 
and oft create to ourselves real pain from ima- 
ginary evils, as well as multiply the pangs 
arising from those which cannot be avoided. 

It behoves us therefore to make the best use 
of that sublime talent, which so long as it 
continues the instrument of passion, will serve 
only to make us more miserable, in proportion 
as we are more excellent than other beings. 

It is the privilege of a thinking being to 
withdraw from the objects that solicit his 
senses, and turn his thoughts inward on him- 
self. For my own part, I often mitigate the 
pain arising from the little misfortunes and 
disappointments that checker human life, by 
this introversion of my faculties, wherein I re- 
gard my own soul as the image of her Creator, 
and receive great consolation from beholding 
those perfections which testify her divine ori- 
ginal, and lead me into some knowledge of her 
everlasting archetype. 

But there is not any property or circum- 
stance of my being that I contemplate with 
more joy than my immortality. I can easily 
overlook any present momentary sorrow, when 
I reflect that it is in my power to be happy a 
thousand years hence. If it were not for this 
thought, I had rather be an oyster than a man, 
the most stupid and senseless of animals, than 

No. 89.J 



a reasonable mind tortured with an extreme 
innate desire of that perfection which it de- 
spairs to obtain. 

It is with great pleasure that I behold in- 
stinct, reason, and faith, concurring to attest 
this comfortable truth. It is revealed from 
heaven, it is discovered by philosophers ; and 
the ignorant, unenlightened part of mankind 
have a natural propensity to believe it. It is 
an agreeable entertainment to reflect on the 
various shapes under which this doctrine has 
appeared in the world. The Pythagorean trans- 
migration, the sensual habitations of the Ma- 
hometan, and the shady realms of Pluto, do 
all agree in the main points, the continuation 
of our existence, and the distribution of re- 
wards and punishments, proportioned to the 
merits or demerits of men in this life. 

But in all these schemes there is something 
gross and improbable, that shocks a reasonable 
and speculative mind. Whereas nothing can 
be more rational and sublime than the Chris- 
tian idea of a future state. ' Eye hath not 
seen, nor ear heard, neither hath it entered 
into the heart of man to conceive the things 
which God hath prepared for those that love 
him.' The above-mentioned schemes are nar- 
row transcripts of our present state : but in 
this indefinite description there is something 
ineffably great and noble. The mind of man 
must be raised to a higher pitch, not only to 
partake the enjoyments of the Christian para- 
dise, but even to be able to frame any notion 
of them. 

Nevertheless, in order to gratify our imagi- 
nation, and by way of condescension to oui 
low way of thinking, the ideas of light, glory, 
a crown, &c. are made use of to adumbrate 
that which we cannot directly understand. 
* The Lamb which is in the midst of the throne 
shall feed them, and shall lead them unto liv- 
ing fountains of waters ; and God shall wipe 
away all tears from their eyes. And there 
shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor 
crying, neither shall there be any more pain, 
for the former things are passed away, and be- 
hold all things are new. There shall be no 
night there, and they need no candle, neither 
light of the sun : for the Lord God giveth them 
light, and shall make them drink of the river 
of his pleasures ; and they shall reign for ever 
and ever. They shall receive a crown of glory 
which fadeth not away.' 

These are cheering reflections ; and I have 
often wondered that men could be found so 
dull and phlegmatic, as to prefer the thought 
of annihilation before them ; or so ill-natured, 
as to endeavour to persuade mankind to the 
disbelief of what is so pleasing and profitable 
even in the prospect ; or so blind, as not to see 
that there is a Deity, and if there be, that this 
scheme of things flows from his attributes, and 

evidently corresponds with the other parts of 
his creation. 

I know not how to account for this absurd 
turn of thought, except it proceed from a want 
of other employment joined with an affectation 
of singularity. I shall, therefore, inform our 
modern free-thinkers of two points whereof 
they seem to be ignorant. The first is, that 
it is not the being singular, but being singular 
for something, that argues either extraordinary 
endowments of nature, or benevolent inten- 
tions to mankind, which draws the admiration 
and esteem of the world. A mistake in this 
point naturally arises from that confusion of 
thought which I do not remember to have 
seen so great instances of in any writers as in 
certain modern free-thinkers. 

The other point is, that there are innumer- 
able objects within the reach of a human mind, 
and each of these objects may be viewed in 
innumerable lights and positions, and the re- 
lations arising between them are innumerable. 
There is therefore an infinity of things whereon 
to employ their thoughts, if not with advan- 
tage to the world, at least with amusement to 
themselves, and without offence or prejudice 
to other people. If they proceed to exert their 
talent of free-thinking in this way, they may 
be innocently dull, and no one take any notice 
of it. But to see men without either wit or ar- 
gument pretend to run down divine and human 
laws, and treat their fellow-subjects with con- 
tempt for professing a belief of those points, 
on which the present as well as future interest 
of mankind depends, is not to be endured. For 
my own part, I shall omit no endeavours to 
render their persons as despicable, and their 
practices as odious, in the eye of the world, as 
they deserve. 

No. 90.] Wednesday, June 24, 1713. 

Fungar vice cotis— Ho?: Ars Poet. ver. 304. 

I'll play the '"hetstone. Creech. 

It is, they say, frequent with authors to 
write letters to themselves, either out of lazi- 
ness or vanity. 

The following is genuine, and, I think, de- 
serves the attention of every man of sense in 

* To the Guardian, 

• SIR, June 20. 

' Though I am not apt to make complaints, and 
have never yet troubled you with any, and little 
thought 1 ever should, yet seeing that in your 
paper of this day, you take no notice of yester- 
day's Examiner, as I hoped you would ; my love 
for my religion, which is so nearly concerned, 
would not permit me to be silent. The matter, 
sir, is this : A bishop of our church (to whom 



[No. 91. 

the Examiner himself has uothing to object, 
but hi* care aiul concern for the protestant 
religion, which by him, it seems, is thought a 
sufficient fault) has lately published a hook, in 

which be endeavours to show the folly, iguo- 

mnce, and mistake of the church of Rome in 
it-, worship of saints. From this the Examiner 
takes occasion to fall upon the author with his 
utmost malice, and to make him the subject 
of his ridicule. Is it then become a crime for 
a protestant to speak or write in defence of his 
religion ? Shall a papist have leave to print 
and publish in England what he pleases in de- 
fence of his own opinion, with the Examiner's 
approbation ; and shall not a protestant be per- 
mitted to write an answer to it? For this, 
Mr. Guardian, is the present case. Last year 
a papist (or to please Mr. Examiner, a Roman 
catholic) published the life of St. Wenefrede, 
for the use of those devout pilgrims_who go in 
great numbers to offer up their prayers to her 
at her well. This gave occasion to the worthy 
prelate, in whose diocess that well is, to make 
some observations upon it; and in order to 
undeceive so many poor deluded people, to 
show how little reason, and how small autho- 
rity there is, not only to believe any of the 
miracles attributed to St. Wenefrede, but even 
to believe there ever was such a person in the 
world. And shall then a good man, upon such 
an account, be liable to be abused in so public 
a manner? Can any good church of England 
man bear to see a bishop, one whom her pre- 
sent majesty was pleased to make, treated in 
so ludicrous a way ? Or should one pass by the 
scurrility and the immodesty that is to be 
found in several parts of the paper? Who can 
with patience see St. Paul and St. Wenefrede 
set by the Examiner upon a level, and the 
authority for one made by him to be equal 
with that for the other? Who that is a Chris- 
tian can endure his insipid mirth upon so 
serious an occasion ? I must confess it raises 
my indignation to the greatest height, to see 
a pen that has been long employed in writing 
panegyrics upon persons of the first rank (who 
would be, indeed, to be pitied were they to 
depend upon that for their praise) to see, I say, 
the same pen at last made use of in defence 
of popery. 

' I think I may now with justice, congratu- 
late with those whom the Examiner dislikes ; 
since, for my own part, I should reckon it my 
great honour to be worthy his disesteem, and 
should count his censure praise. 
1 I am, Sir, 
1 your most humble servant.' 

The above letter complains, with great jus- 

tice, against this incorrigible creature ; but 

I do not insert any thing concerning him, in 

v will have any effect upon 

him, but to prevent the impression what he 
says may have upon others. I shall end this 
paper with a letter I have just now written to 
a gentleman, whose writings are often inserted 
in the Guardian, without deviation of one tittle 
from what he sends. 

'SIR, June C.I. 

1 I have received the favour of yours with 
the inclosed, which made up the papers of the 
two last days. 1 cannot but look upon myself 
with great contempt and mortification, when 
I reflect that I have thrown away more hours 
than you have lived, though you so much excel 
me in every thing for which I would live. Until 
I knew you, I thought it the privilege of angels 
only to be very knowing and very innocent. 
In the warmth of youth to be capable of such 
abstracted and virtuous reflections (with a suit- 
able life) as those with which you entertain 
yourself, is the utmost of human perfection 
and felicity. The greatest honour I can con- 
ceive done to another, is when an elder does 
reverence to a younger, though that younger 
is not distinguished above him by fortune. 
Your contempt of pleasures, riches, and honour 
will crown you with them all, and I wish you 
them not for your own sake, but for the reason 
which only would make them eligible by your- 
self, the good of others. 

' I am, dearest youth, 

' your friend and admirer, 


No. 91.] Thursday, June 25, 1713. 

I nest sua gratia parvis. 

Little things have ihcir value. 

It is the great rule of behaviour to follow 
nature. The author of the following letter is 
so much convinced of this truth, that he turns 
what would render a man of little soul, excep- 
tious, humorsome, and particular in all his 
actions, to a subject of raillery and mirth. 
He is, you must know, but half as tall as an 
ordinary man, but is contented to be still at 
his friend's elbow, and has set up a club, by 
which he hopes to bring those of his own size 
into a little reputation. 

' To Nestor Ironside, Esq. 
* I remember a saying of yours concerning 
persons in low circumstances of stature, that 
their littleness would hardly be taken notice 
of, if they did not manifest a consciousness of 
it themselves in all their behaviour. Indeed, 
the observation that no man is ridiculous for 
being what he is, but only in the affectation 
of being something more, is equally true in re- 
gard to the mind and the body. 

No. 91.] 



1 I question not but It will be pleasing to 
you to hear that a set of us have formed a 
society, who are sworn to " dare to be short," 
and boldly bear out the dignity of littleness 
under the noses of those enormous engrossers 
of manhood, those .hyperbolical monsters of 
the species, the tall fellows that overlook us. 

* The day of our institution was the tenth 
of December, being the shortest of the year, 
on which we are to hold an annual feast over 
a dish of shrimps. 

' The place we have chosen for this meeting 
is in the Little Piazza, not without an eye to 
the neighbourhood of Mr. Powel's opera, for 
the performers of which we have, as becomes 
us, a brotherly affection. 

' At our first resort hither an old woman 
brought her son to the club-room, desiring he 
might be educated in this school, because she 
saw here were finer boys than ordinary. How- 
ever, this accident no way discouraged our de- 
signs. We began with sending invitations to 
those of a stature not exceeding five foot, to 
repair to our assembly ; but the greater part 
returned excuses, or pretended they were net 

* One said he was indeed but five foot at pre- 
sent, but represented that he should soon exceed 
that proportion, his periwig-maker and shoe- 
maker having lately promised him three inches 
more betwixt them. 

* Another alleged, he was so unfortunate 
as to have one leg shorter than the other, and 
whoever had determined his stature to five 
foot, had taken him at a disadvantage ; for 
when he was mounted on the other leg, he 
was at least five foot two inches and a half. 

* There were some who questioned the exact- 
ness of our measures ; and others, instead of 
complying, returned us informations of people 
yet shorter than themselves. In a word, almost 
every one recommended some neighbour or 
acquaintance, whom he was willing we should 
look upon to be less than he. We were not a 
little ashamed that those who are past the years 
of growth, and whose beards pronounce them 
men, should be guilty of as many unfair tricks 
in this point, as the most aspiring children 
when they are measured. 

1 We therefore proceeded to fit up the club- 
room, and provide conveniencies for our accom- 
modation. In the first place we caused a total 
removal of all the chairs, stools, and tables,which 
had served the gross of mankind for many 
years. The disadvantages we had undergone 
while we made use of these, were unspeakable* 
The president's whole body was sunk in the 
elbow chair: and when his arms were spread 
over it, he appeared (to the great lessening of 
his dignity) like a child in a go-cart. It was 
also so wide in the seat, as to give a wag occa- 
sion of saying, that notwithstanding the presi- 
dent sat in it, there was a sede vacante. 

1 The table was so high, that one who tame 
by ehance to the door, seeing our chins just 
above the pewter dishes, took us for a circle oi 
men that sat ready to be shaved, and sent in 
half a dozen barbers. Another time one of the 
club spoke contumeliously of the president, 
imagining he had been absent, when he was 
only eclipsed by a flask of Florence which stooc, 
on the table in a parallel line before his face. 
We therefore new-furnished the room in all 
respects proportionably to us, and had the door 
made lower, so as to admit no man of above 
five foot high, without brushing his foretop, 
which whoever does is utterly unqualified to sit 
among us. 

* Some of the statutes of the club are as follow : 
I. If it be proved upon any member, though 
never so duly qualified, that he strives as much 
as possible to get above his size, by stretching, 
cocking, or the like; or that he hath stood 
on tiptoe iu a crowd, with design to be taken 
for as tall a man as the rest ; or hath privily 
conveyed any large book, cricket, or other 
device under him, to exalt him on his seat : 
every such offender shall be sentenced to walk 
in pumps for a whole month. 

4 II. If any member shall take advantage, 
from the fulness or length of his wig, or any 
part of his dress, or the immoderate extent of 
his hat, or otherwise, to seem larger or higher 
than he is; it is ordered, he shall wear red 
heels to his shoes, and a red feather in his hat, 
which may apparently mark and set bounds 
to the extremities of his small dimension, that 
all people may readily find him out, between 
his hat and his shoes. 

' III. If any member shall purchase a horse 
for his own riding above fourteen hands and a 
half in height, that horse shall forthwith be 
sold, a Scotch galloway bought in its stead for 
him, and the overplus of the money shall treat 
the club. 

* IV. If any member, in direct contradiction 
to the fundamental laws of the society, shall 
wear the heels of his shoes exceeding one inch 
and half, it shall be interpreted as an open re- 
nunciation of littleness, and the criminal shall 
instantly be expelled. Note, The form to be 
used in expelling a member shall be in these 
words, " Go from among us, and be tall if you 
can I" 

' It is the unanimous opinion of our whole 
society, that since the race of mankind is grant- 
ed to have decreased in stature from the be- 
ginning to this present, it is the intent of 
nature itself, that men should be little ; and 
we believe that all human kind shall at last 
grow down to perfection, that is to say, be re» 
dueed to our own measure. 

* I am, very literally, 

' your humble servant, 



No. H.] l'rulay, June M, 171*. 

linmiinciili nu;i!in «unt, cum rtcogilo ! PktUtUS. 

Now l reedUact, how cootidi rable M* Ihele little nun .' 

1 To Nestor Ironside, Esq. 
' silt, 

1 The club rising early this evening, I have 
time to finish my account of it. Vou are al- 
ready acquainted with the nature and design 
of our institution ; the characters of the mem- 
bers, and the topics of our conversation, are 
what remain for the subject of this epistle. 

' The most eminent persons of our assembly 
are, a little poet, a little lover, a little politi- 
cian, and a little hero. The first of these, Dick 
Distich by name, we have elected president, 
not only as he is the shortest of us all, but 
because he has entertained so just a sense of 
the stature, as to go generally in black, that 
he may appear yet less. Nay, to that perfec- 
tion is he arrived, that he stoops as he walks. 
The figure of the man is odd enough : he is a 
lively little creature, with long arms and legs: 
a spider is no ill emblem of him. He has 
been taken at a distance for a small windmill. 
But indeed what principally moved us in his 
favour was his talent in poetry, for he hath 
promised to undertake a long work in short 
verse to celebrate the heroes of our size. He 
has entertained so great a respect for Statius, 
on the score of that line, 

" Major in cxigno regnabat corpore" virtus." 
" A larger portion of heroic fire 
Did liis small limbs and little inspire." 

that he once designed to translate the whole 
Thebaid for the sake of little Tydeus. 

1 Tom Tiptoe, a dapper black fellow, is the 
most gallant lover of the age. He is particu- 
larly nice in his habiliments ; and to the end 
justice may be done him that way, constantly 
employs the same artist who makes attire for 
the neighbouring princes and ladies of quality 
at Mr. Powel's. The vivacity of his temper 
inclines him sometimes to boast of the favours 
of the fair. He was the other night excusing 
his absence from the club upon account of an 
assignation with a lady, (and, as he had the 
vanity to tell us, a tall one too) who had con- 
sented to the full accomplishment of his desires 
that evening; but one of the company, who 
was his confidant, assured us she was a woman 
of humour, and made the agreement on this 
condition, that his toe should he tied to hers. 

4 Our politician is a person of real gravity, 
and professed wisdom. Gravity in a man of 
tins lize, compared with that of one of ordinary 
bulk, appears like the gravity of a cat com- 
pared with that of a lion. This gentleman is 
SCCUttOtned to talk to himself, and wn once 
overheard to compare his own person to a 

little cabinet, wherein are locked up all the 

secrets of state, and refined Si •■hemes of princes. 
Mi- face is pale and meagre, winch proceeds 
from much Watching and Studying lor the wel 


[No. 92. 

fare of Europe, which is also thought to have 
stinted his growth: for he hath destroyed his 
own constitution with taking care of that of 
the nation. He is what Mons. Balzac calls" a 
great distiller of the maxims of Tacitus." When 
he speaks, it is slowly, and word hy word, as 
one that is loth to enrich you too fast with his 
observations : like a limbec, that gives you, drop 
by drop, an extract of the simples in it. 

1 The last I shall mention is Tim Tuck, the 
hero. He is particularly remarkable for the 
length of his sword, which intersects his person 
in a cross line, and makes him appear not un- 
like a fly that the boys have run a pin through 
and set a walking. He once challenged a tall 
fellow for giving him a blow on the pate with 
his elbow as he passed along the street. But 
what he especially values himself upon is, that 
in all the campaigns he has made, he never 
once ducked at the whiz of a cannon-ball. 
Tim was full as large at fourteen years old as 
he is now. This we are tender of mentioning, 
your little heroes being generally choleric. 

' These are the gentlemen that most enliven 
our conversation. The discourse generally 
turns upon such accidents, whether fortunate 
or unfortunate, as are daily occasioned by our 
size. These we faithfully communicate, either 
as matter of mirth, or of consolation to each 
other. The president had lately an unlucky 
fall, being unable to keep his legs on a storm v 
day ; whereupon he informed us, it was no 
new disaster, but the same a certain ancient 
poet had been subject to, who is recorded to 
have been so light, that he was obliged to poise 
himself against the wind with lead on one side 
and his own works on the other. The lover 
confessed the other night that he had been 
cured of love to a tall woman by reading over 
the legend of Ragotine in Scarron, with his tea, 
three mornings successively. Our hero rarely 
acquaints us with any of his unsuccessful ad- 
ventures. And as for the politician, he declares 
himself an utter enemy to all kind of burlesque, 
so will never discompose the austerity of his 
aspect by laughing at our adventures, much 
less discover any of his own in this ludicrous 
light. Whatever he tells of any accidents that 
hefal him, is by way of complaint, nor is he to 
be laughed at, but in his absence. 

* We are likewise particularly careful to 
communicate in the club all such passages of 
history, or characters of illustrious personages, 
as any way reflect honour on little men. Tim 
Tuck having but just reading enough for a 
military man, perpetually entertains us with 
the same stories, of little David, that conquered 
the mighty Ooliah, and little Luxembourg, 
that made Lewis XIV. a grand monarque, never 
forgetting little Alexander the Great. Dick 
Distich celebrates the exceeding humanity of 
Augustus, who called Horace LepidissimuQ 
Homunciolum ; and is wonderfully pleased 

No. 93.] 



with Voiture and Scarron, for having so well 
described their diminutive forms to all poste- 
rity. He is peremptorily of opinion, against 
a great reader, and all his adherents, that^Esop 
was not a jot properer or handsomer than he 
is represented by the common pictures. But 
the soldier believes with the learned person 
above-mentioned ; for he thinks, none but an 
impudent tall author could be guilty of such 
an unmannerly piece of satire on little warriors, 
as his battle of the mouse and the frog. The 
politician is very proud of a certain king of 
Egypt, called Bocchor, who, as Diodorus assures 
us, was a person of very low stature, but far 
exceeded all that went before him in discretion 
and politics. 

* As I am secretary to the club, it is my busi- 
ness whenever we meet to take minutes of the 
transactions. This has enabled me to send 
you the foregoing particulars, as I may here- 
after other memoirs. We have spies appointed 
in every quarter of the town, to give us in- 
formations of the misbehaviour of such refrac- 
tory persons as refuse to be subject to our 
statutes. Whatsoever aspiring practices any 
of these our people shall be guilty of in their 
amours, single combats, or any indirect means 
to manhood, we shall certainly be acquainted 
with, and publish to the world for their punish- 
ment and reformation. For the president has 
granted me the sole property of exposing and 
showing to the town all such intractable dwarfs, 
whose circumstances exempt them from being 
carried about in boxes ; reserving only to him- 
self, as the right of a poet, those smart cha- 
racters that will shine in epigrams. Venerable 
Nestor, I salute you in the name of the club. 
* BOB SHORT, Secretar: 

No. 93.] Saturday, June 27, 1713. 

Est animus lncis contemptor. Virg. iEn. ix. 205. 

The tiling call'd life vritli ease I can disclaim. Dryden. 

The following letters are curious and in- 
structive, and shall make up the business of 
the day. 

1 To the Author of the Guardian. 

'SIR, June 25, 17 L3. 

* The inclosed is a faithful translation from 
an old author, which, if it deserves your notice, 
let the readers guess whether he was a. heathen 
or a Christian. ' I am, 

' your most humble servant.' 

" 1 cannot, my friends, borbear letting you 
know what I think of death; for methinks 
I view and understand it much better, the 
nearer I approach to it. I am convinced that 
your fathers, those illustrious persons whom 
I so much loved and honoured, do not cease 
to live, though they have passed through what 
we call death ; they are undoubtedly still liv- 

ing, but it is that sort of life which alone de 
serves truly to be called life. In effect, whila 
we are confined to bodies, we ought to esteem 
ourselves no other than a sort of galley-slaves 
at the chain, since the soul, which is some 
what divine, and descends from heaven as the 
place of its original, seems debased and disho 
noured by the mixture with flesh and blood, 
and to be in a state of banishment from its 
celestial country. I cannot help thinking too, 
that one main reason of uniting souls to bodies 
was, that the great work of the universe might 
have spectators to admire the beautiful order 
of nature, the regular motion of heavenly 
bodies, who should strive to express that re- 
gularity in the uniformity of their lives. When 
I consider the boundless activity of our minds, 
the remembrance we have of things past, our 
foresight of what is to come ; when I reflect 
on the noble discoveries and vast improve- 
ments, by which these minds have advanced 
arts and sciences ; I am entirely persuaded, 
and out of all doubt that a nature which has 
in itself a fund of so many excellent things 
cannot possibly be mortal. I observe further, 
that my mind is altogether simple, without the 
mixture of any substance or nature different 
from its own ; I conclude from thence that it 
is indivisible, and consequently cannot perish. 
" By no means think, therefore, my dear 
friends, when I shall have quitted you, that 
I cease to be, or shall subsist no where. Re- 
member that while we live together, you do 
not see my mind, and yet are sure that I have 
one actuating and moving my body ; doubt 
not then but that this same mind will have a 
being when it is separated, though you cannot 
then perceive its actions. What nonsense 
would it be to pay those honours to great men 
after their deaths, which we constantly do, if 
their souls did not then subsist ? For my own 
part, I could never imagine that our minds live 
only when united to bodies, and die when they 
leave them ; or that they shall cease to think 
and understand when disengaged from bodies, 
which without them have neither sense nor 
reason : on the contrary, I believe the soul 
when separated from matter, to enjoy the 
greatest purity and simplicity of its nature, 
and to have much more wisdom and light than 
while it was united. We see when the body 
dies what becomes of all the parts which com. 
posed it; but we do not see the mind, either in 
the body, or when it leaves it. Nothing more 
resembles death than sleep, and it is in that 
state that the soul chiefly shows it has some- 
thing divine in its nature. How much more 
then must it show it when entirely disengaged ?' 

' To the Author of the Guardian. 
* Since you have not refused to insert mat- 
ters of a theological nature in those excellent 



[No. 9S. 

papers with which you daily both instruct and 
divert us, I earnestly desire you to print the 
following paper. The notions therein advanced 
are, lor aught I know, new to the English 
. Mid if they are true, will afford room 
fur many useful infer* nces. 

' NO man that reads the evangelists, but 
most observe that our blessed Saviour does 
upon every occasion bend all his force and zeal 
to rebuke and correct the hypocrisy of the 
Pharisees. Upon that subject he shows a 
warmth which one meets with in no other 
part of his sermons. They were so enraged at 
this public detection of their secret villanies, 
by one who saw through all their disguises, 
that they joined in the prosecution of him, 
which was so vigorous, that Pilate at last con- 
sented to his death. The frequency and vehe- 
mence of these representations' of our Lord, 
have made the word Pharisee to be looked 
upon as odious among Christians, and to 
mean only one who lays the utmost stress upon 
the outward, ceremonial, and ritual part of his 
religion, without having such an inward sense 
of it, as would lead him to a general and sin- 
cere observance of those duties which can only 
arise from the heart, and which cannot be 
supposed to. spring from a desire of applause 
or profit. 

' This is plain from the history of the life 
and actions of our Lord in the four evangelists. 
One of them, St. Luke, continued his history 
down in a second part, which we commonly 
call The Acts of the Apostles. Now it is ob- 
servable, that in this second part, in which he 
gives a particular account of what the apostles 
did and suffered at Jerusalem upon their first 
entering upon their commission, and also of 
what St. Paul did after he was consecrated to 
the apostleship until his journey to Rome, we 
find not only no opposition to Christianity from 
the Pharisees, but several signal occasions in 
which they assisted its first teachers, when the 
Christian church was in its infant state. The 
true, zealous, and hearty persecutors of Chris- 
tianity at that time were the Sadducees, whom 
we may truly call the free-thinkers among the 
Jews. They believed neither resurrection, nor 
angel, nor spirit, i. e. in plain English, they 
were deists at least, if not atheists. They 
could outwardly comply with, and conform to 
the establishment in church and state, and 
they pretended, forsooth, to belong only to a 
particular sect ; and because there was nothing 
in tin- law of Moses which in so many words 

ed a resurrection, they appeared to adhere 
to that in a particular manner beyond any 
other part of tin' old testament. These mem, 
therefore, justly dreaded the spreading of Chris- 
tianity after the ascension of our Lord, because 
it was wholly founded upon his resurrection. 

' Accordingly, t hcrcloi c, \\ hen Peter and John 
had cured the lame \n.\u at the beautiful gate 

of the temple, and had thereby raised a won- 
derful expectation of themselves among the 
people, the priests and Sadducees, (Acts iv.) 
elapt them up, and sent them away for the 
first time with a severe reprimand. Quickly 
after, when the deaths of Ananias and Sapphira, 
and the many miracles wrought after those 
severe instances of the apostolical power had 
alarmed the priests, who looked upon the tern- 
pie-worship, and consequently their bread, to 
be struck at ; these priests, and all they that 
were with them, who were of the sect of the 
Sadducees, imprisoned the apostles, intending 
to examine them in the great council the next 
day. Where, when the council met, and the 
priests and Sadducees proposed to proceed with 
great rigour against them, we find that Gama- 
liel, a very eminent Pharisee, St. Paul's master, 
a man of great authority among the people, 
many of whose determinations we have still 
preserved in the body of the Jewish traditions, 
commonly called the Talmud, opposed their 
heat, and told them, for aught they knew, the 
apostles might be acted by the Spirit of God, 
and that in such a case it would be in vain to 
oppose them, since, if they did so, they would 
only fight against God, whom they could not 
overcome. Gamaliel was so considerable a man 
among his own sect, that we may reasonably 
believe he spoke the sense of his party as well 
as his own. St. Stephen's martyrdom came 
on presently after, in which we do not fiud 
the Pharisees, as such, had any hand ; it is 
probable that he was prosecuted by those who 
had before imprisoned Peter and John. One 
novice indeed of that sect was so zealous, that 
he kept the clothes of 'those that stoned him. 
This novice, whose zeal went beyond all bounds, 
was the great St. Paul, who was peculiarly ho- 
noured with a call from heaven by which he 
was converted, and he was afterwards, by God 
himself, appointed to be the apostle of the 
Gentiles. Besides him, and him too reclaimed 
in so glorious a manner, we find no one Phari- 
see either named or hinted at by St. Luke, as 
an opposer of Christianity in those earliest 
days. What others might do we know not. 
But we find the Sadducees pursuing St. Paul 
even to death at his coming to Jerusalem, in 
the twenty-first of the Acts.. He then, upon 
all occasions, owned himself to be a Pharisee. 
In the twenty-second chapter he told the 
people, that he had been bred up at the feet of 
Gamaliel after the strictest manner, in the law 
of his fathers. In the twenty-third chapter he 
told the council that he was a Pharisee, the 
son of a Pharisee, and that he was accused for 
asserting the hope and resurrection of the dead, 
which was their darling doctrine. Hereupon 
the Pharisees stood by him, and though they 
did not own our Saviour to be the Messiah, yet 
they would not deny but some angel or spirit 
might have spoken to him, and then if thev 

No. 94.] 



opposed him, they should fight against God. 
This was the very argument Gamaliel had used 
before. The resurrection of our Lord, which 
they saw so strenuously asserted by the apos- 
tles, whose miracles they also saw and owned, 
(Acts iv. 16.) seems to have struck them, and 
many of them were converted (Acts xv. 5.) even 
without a miracle, and the rest stood still and 
made no opposition. 

1 We see here what the part was, which the 
Pharisees acted in this important conjuncture. 
Of the Sadducees, we meet not with one in the 
whole apostolic history that was converted. 
We hear of no miracles wrought to convince 
any of them, though there was an eminent one 
wrought [to reclaim a Pharisee. St. Paul we 
see, after his conversion, always gloried in his 
having been bred a Pharisee. He did so to 
the people of Jerusalem, to the great council, 
to king Agrippa, and to the Philippiar.s. So 
that from hence we may justly infer, that it 
was not their institution, which was in itself 
laudable, which our blessed Saviour found fault 
w ith, but it was their hypocrisy, their covetous- 
ne-ss, their oppression, their overvaluing them- 
selves upon their zeal for the ceremonial law, 
and their adding to that yoke by their tradi- 
tions, all which were not properly essentials of 
their institution, that our Lord blamed. 

f But I must not run on. What I would 
observe, sir, is that atheism is more dreadful, 
and would be more grievous to human society, 
if it were invested with sufficient power, than 
religion under any shape, where its professors 
do at the bottom believe what they profess. I 
despair not of a papist's conversion, though 
I would not willingly lie at a zealot papist's 
mercy, (and no protestant would, if he knew 
what popery is) though he truly believes in our 
Saviour. But the free-thinker, who scarcely 
believes there is a God, and certainly disbe- 
lieves revelation, is a very terrible animal. He 
will talk of natural rights, and the just free- 
doms of mankind, no longer than until he 
himself gets into power ; and by the instance 
before us, we have small grounds to hope for 
his salvation, or that God will ever vouchsafe 
him sufficient grace to reclaim him from errors, 
which have been so immediately levelled against 

* If these notions be true, as I verily believe 
they are, 1 thought they might be worth pub- 
lishing at this time, for which reason they are 
sent in this manner to you by, S4r, 

( Your most humble servant, 

«M. N.' 

No. 94.] Monday, June 29, 1713. 

Ingenium, sibi quod vacnas desumpsit Athenas, 
Et studiis annos septem dedit, insenuitque 
Libris et curis ; statua taciturnius exit 

Pterumque, et risu popiilnm quatit 

Hor. Lib. 2. Ep. ii. 81 . 


The man, who strctch'd in Isis' calm retreat, 
To books and study gives seven years complete, 
See ! strow'd with learned dust, his night-cap on, 
He walks, an object new beneath the sun ! 
The boys flock round him, and the people stare ; 
So stiff, so mute ! some statue, you would swear, 
Stept from its pedestal to take the air ? Pope. 

Since our success in worldly matters may 
be said to depend upon our education, it will 
be very much to the purpose to inquire if the 
foundations of our fortune could not be laid 
deeper and surer than they are. The education 
of youth falls of necessity under the direction 
of those who, through fondness to us and our 
abilities, as well as to their own unwarrantable 
conjectures, are very likely deceived; 
and the misery of it is, that the poor creatures, 
who are the sufferers upon wrong advances, 
seldom find out the errors, until they become 
irretrievable. As the greater number of all 
degrees and conditions have their education 
at the universities, the errors whieh I conceive 
to be in those places, fall most naturally under 
the following observation. The first mis- 
management in these public nurseries, is the 
calling together a number of pupils, of how- 
soever different ages, views, and capacities, to 
the same lectures : but surely there can be no 
reason to think, that a delicate tender babe, 
just weaned from the bosom of his mother, 
indulged in all the impertinencies of his heart's 
desire, should be equally capable of receiving 
a lecture of philosophy, with a hardy ruffian 
of full age, who has been occasionally scourged 
through some of the great schools, groaned 
under constant rebuke and chastisement, and 
maintained a ten years' war with lite ature, 
under very strict and rugged discipline. 

I know the reader has pleased himself with 
an answer to this already, viz. That an atten- 
tion to the particular abilities and designs of 
the pupil cannot be expected from the trifling 
salary paid upon such account. The price, in- 
deed, which is thought a sufficient reward for 
any advantages a youth can receive from a 
man of learning, is an abominable considera- 
tion ; the enlarging which would not only in- 
crease the care of tutors, but would be a very 
great encouragement to such as designed to 
take this province upon them, to furnish them- 
selves with a more general and extensive know- 
ledge. As the case now stands, those of the 
first quality pay their tutors but little above 
half so much as they do their footmen : what 
morality, what history, what taste of the 
modern languages, what lastly, that can make 
a man happy or great, may not be expected in 
return for such an immense treasure! It is 
monstrous, indeed, that the men of the best 
estates and families, are more solicitous about 
the tutelage of a favourite dog or horse, than 
of their heirs male. The next evil is the pe- 
dantical veneration that is maintained at the 



[No. 94 

university for the Greek and Latin, which puts 

the youth upon such exercises as many of them 
are incapable of performing with any tolerable 
•UCCeSS. Upon this emergency they are suc- 
coured by the allowed wits of their respective 
colleges, who are always ready to befriend 
them with two or three hundred Latin or Greek 
words thrown together, with a very small pro- 
portion of sense. 

But the most established error of our uni- 
versity education, is the general neglect of all 
the little qualifications and accomplishments 
which make up the character of a well-bred 
man, and the general attention to what is 
called deep learning. But as there are very few 
blessed with a genius that shall force success 
by the strength of itself alone, and few occa- 
sions of life that require, the aid of such genius ; 
the vast majority of the unblessed souls ought 
to store themselves with such acquisitions, in 
which every man has capacity to make a con- 
siderable progress, and from which every com- 
mon occasion of life may reap great advantage. 
The persons that may be useful to us in the 
making our fortunes, are such as are already 
happy in their own ; I may proceed to say, 
that the men of figure and family are more 
superficial in their education, than those of a 
less degree, and of course, are ready to en- 
courage and protect that qualification in an- 
other, which they themselves are masters of. 
For their own application implies the pursuit 
of something commendable ; and when they 
see their own characters proposed as imitable, 
they must be won by such an irresistible flat- 
tery. But those of the university, who are to 
make their fortunes by a ready insinuation into 
the favour of their superiors, contemn this ne- 
cessary foppery so far, as not to be able to 
speak common sense to them without hesita- 
tion, perplexity, and confusion. For want of 
care in acquiring less accomplishments which 
adorn ordinary life, he that is so unhappy as 
to be born poor, is condemned to a method 
that will very probably keep him so. 

I hope all the learned will forgive me what 
is said purely for their service, and tends to no 
other injury against them, than admonishing 
them not to overlook such little qualifications 
as they every day see defeat their greater ex- 
cellencies in the pursuit both of reputation 
and fortune. 

If the youth of the university were to be ad- 
vanced according to their sufficiency in the 
severe progress of learning ; or ' riches could 
be secured to men of understanding, and favour 
to men of skill ;' then indeed all studies were 
solemnly to be defied, that did not seriously 
pursue the main end ; but since our merit is 
to be tried by the unskilful many, we must 
gratify the sense, of the injudicious majority, 

satisfying ourselves that the shame of a trivial 
qualification sticks only upon him that prefers 

it to one more substantial. The more accom- 
plishments a man is master of, the better is 
he prepared for a more extended acquaintance, 
and upon these considerations, without doubt, 
the author of the Italian book called II Cor- 
tegiano, or The Courtier, makes throwing the 
bar, vaulting the horse, nay even wrestling, 
with several other as low qualifications, neces- 
sary for the man whom he figures for a perfect 
courtier; for this reason no doubt, because his 
end being to find grace in the eyes of men of 
all degrees, the means to pursue this end, was 
the furnishing him with such real and seeming 
excellencies as each degree had its particular 
taste of. But those of the university, instead 
of employing their leisure hours in the pursuit 
of such acquisitions as would shorten their 
way to better fortune, enjoy those moments at 
certain houses in the town, or repair to others 
at very pretty distances out of it, where ' they 
drink and forget their poverty, and remember 
their misery no more.' Persons of this indigent 
education are apt to pass upon themselves and 
others for modest, especially in the point of 
behaviour ; though it is easy to prove, that 
this mistaken modesty not only arises from 
ignorance, but begets the appearance of its 
opposite, pride. For he that is conscious of 
his own insufficiency to address his superiors 
without appearing ridiculous, is by that be- 
trayed into the same neglect and indifference 
towards them, which may bear the construc- 
tion of pride. From this habit they begin to 
argue against the base submissive application 
from men of letters to men of fortune, and be 
grieved when they see, as Ben Jonson says, 

The learned pate 

Duck to the golden fool.'- 

thotigh these are points of necessity and con- 
venience, and to be esteemed submissions rather 
to the occasion than to the person, it was a 
fine answer of Diogenes, who being asked in 
mockery, why philosophers were the followers 
of rich men, and not rich men of philosophers, 
replied, ' Because the one knew what they 
had need of, and the other did not.' It oer- 
tainly must be difficult to prove, that a man of 
business, or a profession, ought not to be what 
we call a gentleman, but yet very few of them 
are so. Upon this account they have little 
conversation with those who might do them 
most service, but upon such occasions only as 
application is made to them in their particular 
calling ; and for any thing they can do or say 
in such matters have their reward, and there- 
fore rather receive than confer an obligation; 
whereas he that adds his being agreeable to 
his being serviceable, is constantly in a capacity 
of obliging others. The character of a beau, 
is, I think, what the men that pretend to 
learning please themselves in ridiculing : and 
yet if we compare these persons as we see them 

No. 95. j 



in public, we shall find that the lettered cox- 
combs without good- breeding 1 , give more just 
occasion to raillery., than the unlettered cox- 
combs with it : as our behaviour falls within 
the judgment of more persons than our con- 
versation, and a failure in it is therefore more 
visible. What pleasant victories over the loud, 
the saucy, and the illiterate, would attend the 
men of learning and breeding; which quali- 
fications could we but join, would beget 
such a confidence as, arising from good sense 
and good-nature, would never let us oppress 
others or desert ourselves. In short, whether 
a man intends a life of business or pleasure, it 
is impossible to pursue either in an elegant 
manner, without the help of good-breeding. 
I shall conclude with the face at least of a re- 
gular discourse ; and say, if it is our behaviour 
and address upon all common occasions that 
prejudice people in our favour, or to our disad- 
vantage, and the more substantial parts, as our 
learning and industry, cannot possibly appear 
but to few ; it is not justifiable to spend so 
much time in that which so very few are judges 
of, and utterly neglect that which falls within 
the censure of so many. 

No. 95.] Tuesday, June 30, 1713. 

— Alieua nepotia centum Hor. Lib. 2. Sat. vi. 33. 

A crowd of petitioners. Creech. 

I find business increase upon me very much, 
as will appear by the following letters. 

' SI R, Oxford, June 24, 1713. 

' This day Mr. Oliver Purville, gentleman, 
property-man to the theatre royal in the room 
of Mr. William Peer, deceased, arrived here 
in widow Bartlett's waggon. He is a humble 
member of the Little Club, and a passionate 
man, which makes him tell the disasters which 
he met with on his road hither, a little too in- 
coherently to be rightly understood. By what 
I can gather from him, it seems that within 
three miles of this side Wickham, the party 
was set upon by highwaymen. Mr. Purville 
was supercargo to the great hamper in which 
were the following goods. The chains of Jaf- 
fier and Pierre; the crowns and sceptres of 
the posterity of Banquo; the bull, bear, and 
horse of captain Otter ; bones, skulls, pickaxes, 
and a bottle of brandy, and five muskets ; four- 
score pieces of stock-gold, and thirty pieces of 
tin-silver, hid in a green purse within a skull. 
These the robbers, by being put up safe, sup- 
posed to be true, and rid off with, not forget- 
ting to take Mr. Purville's own current coin. 
They broke the armour of Jacomo, which was 
cased up in the same hamper, and one of them 
put on the said Jaeomo's mask to escape. 
They also did several extravagancies with no 
other purpose but to do mischief; they broke 
a mace for the lord mayor of London. They 

also destroyed the world, the sun, and moon, 
which lay loose in the waggon. Mrs. Bartlett 
is frightened out of her wits, for Purville says he 
has her servant's receipt for the world, and ex- 
pects she shall make it good. Purville is re- 
solved to take no lodgings in town, but makes, 
behind the scenes, a bed chamber of the ham- 
per. His bed is that in which Desdemona is 
to die, and he uses the sheet (in which Mr. 
Johnson is tied up in a comedy,) for his own 
bed of nights. It is to be hoped the great ones 
will consider Mr. Purville's loss. One of the 
robbers has sent, by a country fellow, the 
stock-gold, and had the impudence to write 
the following letter to Mr. Purville. 

f S1K, 
" If you had been an honest man, you would 
not have put bad money upon men who ven- 
ture their lives for it. But we shall see you 
when you come back. 


' There are many things in this matter 
which employ the ablest men here, as whether 
an action will lie for the world among people 
who make the most of words ? or whether it 
be adviseable to call that round ball the world, 
and if we do not call it so, whether we can 
have any remedy ? the ablest lawyer here says 
there is no help ; for if you call it the world, 
it will be answered, How could the world be in 
one shire, to wit, that of Buckingham ; for 
the county must be named, and if you do not 
name it, we shall certainly be nonsuited. I do 
not know whether I make myself understood ; 
but you understand me right when you believe 
I am ' Your most humble servant, 

' and faithful correspondent, 


* Your character of Guardian makes it. not 
only necessary, but becoming, to have several 
employed under you. And being myself am- 
bitious of your service, I am now your humble 
petitioner to be admitted into a place I do not 
find yet disposed of — I mean that of your lion- 
catcher. It was, sir, for want of such com- 
mission from your honour, very many lions 
have lately escaped. However, I made bold 
to distinguish a couple. One I found in 
a coffee-house — He was of the larger sort, 
looked fierce, and roared loud. I considered 
wherein he was dangerous ; and accordingly 
expressed my displeasure against him, in such 
a manner upon his chaps, that now he is not 
able to show his teeth. The other was a small 
lion, who was slipping by me as I stood at the 
corner of an alley — 1 smelt the creature pre- 
sently, and catched at him, but he got off with 
the loss of a lock of hair only, which proved of 
a dark colour. This and the teeth above- 
mentioned I have by me, and design them both 
for a present to Button's coffee-house. 

' Besides this way of dealing with then), 2 



[No. 95. 

have invented many curious traps, 6nares, and 
artificial baits, which, it is humbly conn -ived, 
tannot fail of clearing the kingdom of the 
whole species in a short time. 

1 This is humbly submitted to your honour's 
consideration ; and I am ready to appear before 
your houour, to answer to such questions as you 
in your great wisdom, shall think meet to ask, 
whenever you please to commmand, 

' Vour honour's most obedient 

humble servant, 
Midsummer-day. ' HERCULES CRABTREE. 

' N. B. I have an excellent nose.' 

Tom'9, iu Cornhill, 
« SIR, June 10, 1?13. 

' Reading in your yesterday's paper a letter 
from Daniel Button, in recommendation of 
his coffee-house for polite conversation and 
freedom from the argument by the button, I 
make bold to send you this to assure you, that 
at this place there is as yet kept up as good a 
decorum in the debates of politics, trade, 
stocks, &c. as at Will's, or at any other coffee- 
house at your end of the town. In order, 
therefore, to preserve this house from the arbi- 
trary way of forcing an assent, by seizing on 
the collar, neckcloth, or any other part of the 
body or dress, it would be of signal service if 
you would be pleased to intimate, that we, 
who frequent this place after Exchange-time, 
shall have the honour of seeing you here some- 
times ; for that would be a sufficient guard to 
us from all such petty practices, and also be a 
means of enabling the honest man, who keeps 
the bouse, to continue to serve us with the 
best bohea and green tea, and coffee, and will 
in a particular manner oblige, 

1 Sir, vour most humble servant, 


P. S. The room above stairs is the hand- 
somest in this part of the town, furnished with 
large pier glasses for persons to view themselves 
in, who have no business with any body else, 
and every way fit for the reception of fine 

' SIR, 
I am a very great scholar, wear a fair wig, 
and have an immense number of books curi- 
ously bound and gilt. I excel in a singularity 
of diction and manners, and visit persons of the 
first quality. In fine, 1 have by me a great 
quantity of cockle-shells, which, however, 
does not defend inc from the insults of another 
learned man who neglects me in a most in- 
supportable manner: fori have it from per- 
sons of undoubted veracity, that he presumed 
onoc t<> pass by my door without waiting upon 
in-. \\ liether this be consistent with the re- 
-i-i t which we learned nun ought to have for 
each other, I leave to your judgment, and am, 
* Sir, your affectionate Friend, 

• PiiiLAin us: 

• PRl EN U N ESTOR, Oxford. June 18, 1713. 

' I had always a great value for thee, and 
have so still : but I must tell thee, that thou 
strangely affectest to be sage and solid: now 
pr'ythee let me observe to thee, that though 
it be common enough for people as they grow 
older to grow graver, yet it is not so common 
to become wiser. Verily to me thou seemest to 
keep strange company, and with a positive 
sufficiency, incident to old age, to follow too 
much thine own inventions. Thou dependest 
too much, likewise, upon thy correspondence 
here, and art apt to take people's words with- 
out consideration. -But my present business 
with thee is to expostulate with thee about a 
late paper, occasioned, as thou say'st, by Jack 
Lizard's information, (my very good friend) 
that we are to have a public act. 

1 Now, I say, in that paper, there is nothing 
contended for which any man of common sense 
will deny; all that is there said, is, that no 
man or woman's reputation ought to be blasted, 
i.e. nobody ought to have an ill character 
who does not deserve it. Very true ; but here's 
this false consequence insinuated, that there- 
fore nobody ought to hear of their faults ; or, 
in other words, let any body do as much ill as 
he pleases, he ought not to be told of it. Art 
thou a patriot, Mr. Ironside, and wilt thou 
affirm, that arbitrary proceedings and oppres- 
sion ought to be concealed or justified? Art 
thou a gentleman, and would'st thou have 
base, sordid, ignoble tricks connived at, or 
tolerated ? Art thou a scholar and would st 
tbou have learning and good manners discou- 
raged ? Would'st thou have cringing servility, 
parasitical shuffling, fawning, and dishonest 
compliances, made the road to success ? Art 
thou a Christian, and would'st thou have all 
villanies within the law practised with impu- 
nity ? Should they not be told of it ? It is cer- 
tain, there are many things which, though 
there are no laws against them, yet ought not 
to be done ; and in such cases there is no ar- 
gument so likely to hinder their being doue, 
as the fear of public shame for doing them. 
The two great reasons against an act are 
always, the saving of money, and hiding of 

" Here many things are omitted which will 
be in the speech of the Terraefilius." 

4 And now, dear Old Iron, I am glad to hear 
that at these years thou hast gallantry enough 
left to have thoughts of setting up for a knight- 
errant, a tamer of monsters, and a defender of 
distrest damsels. 

4 Adieu, old fellow, and let me give thee this 
advice at parting; E'en get thyself case-hard- 
ened ; for though the very best steel may snap, 
yet old iron you know will rust. 


' Be ;ust, and publish this. 

No. 96.] 



' MM. IRONSIDE, Oxford, Sat. 27, 1713. 

1 This day arrived the vanguard of the the- 
atrical array. Your friend, Mr. George Powel, 
commanded the artillery, both celestial and 
terrestrial. The magazines of snow, lightning, 
and thunder, are safely laid up. We have had 
no disaster on the way, but that of breaking 
Cupid's bow by a jolt of the waggon : but they 
tell us they make them very well in Oxford. 
We all went in a body, and were shown your 
chambers in Lincoln college. The Teraefilius 
expects you down, and we of the theatre, de- 
sign to bring you into town with all our guards. 
Those of Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, 
and the faithful retinue of Cato, shall meet 
you at Shotover. The ghost of Hamlet, and 
the statue which supped with Don John, both 
say, that though it be at noon day, they will 
attend your entry. Every body expects you 
with great impatience. We shall be in very 
good order when all are come down. We have 
sent to town for a brick-wall which we forgot. 
The sea is to come by water. 

' Your most humble servant, 

* and faithful correspondent, 


No. 96.] Wednesday, July 1, 1713. 

Concti adscint, meritaeqne expectent prasmia palrme. 
Virg. i£n. v. 70. 

Let all be present at the games prepar'd ; 

Aud joyful victors wait the just reward. Dryden. 

There is no maxim in politics more indis- 
putable, than that a nation should have mauy 
honours in reserve for those who do national 
services. This raises emulation, cherishes 
public merit, and inspires every one with an 
ambition which promotes the good of his coun- 
try. The less expensive these honours are to 
the public, the more still do they turn to its 

The Romans abounded with these little 
honorary rewards, that without conferring 
wealth or riches, gave only place and distinc- 
tion to the person who received them. An 
oaken garland to be worn on festivals and 
public ceremonies, was the glorious recoms- 
pense of one who had covered a citizen in 
battle. A soldier would not only venture his 
life for a mural crown, but think the most 
hazardous enterprise sufficiently repaid by so 
noble a donation. 

But among all honorary rewards which are 
neither dangerous nor detrimental to the donor, 
1 remember none so remarkable as the titles 
which are bestowed by the emperor of China. 
These are never given to any subject, says 
monsieur le Comte, until the subject is dead. 
Jf he has pleased his emperor to the last, he is 
called in all public memorials by the title which 
the emperor confers on him after his death, 

and his children take their ranks accordingly. 
This keeps the ambitious subject in a perpetual 
dependence, making him always vigilant and 
active, and in every thing conformable to the 
will of Ins sovereign. 

There are no honorary rewards among us, 
which are more esteemed by the person who 
receives them, and are cheaper to the prince, 
than the giving of medals. But there is some- 
thing in the modern manner of celebrating a 
great action in medals, which makes such a 
reward much less valuable thau it was among 
the Romans. There is generally but one coin 
stamped on the occasion, which is made a pre- 
sent to the person who is celebrated on it. By 
this means his whole fame is in his own custody. 
The applause that is bestowed upon him is 
too much limited and confined. He is in pos- 
session of an honour which the world perhaps 
knows nothing of. He may be a great man 
in his own family ; his wife and children may 
see the monument of an exploit, which the 
public in a little time is a stranger to. The 
Romans took a quite different method in this 
particular. Their medals were their current 
money. When an action deserved to be re- 
corded in coin, it was stamped perhaps upon 
a hundred thousand pieces of money like our 
shillings, or halfpence, which were issued out 
of the mint, and became current. This method 
published every noble action to advantage, and 
in a short space of time, spread through the 
whole Roman empire. Ine Romans were so 
careful to preserve the memory of great events 
upon their coins, that when any particular piece 
of money grew very scarce, it was often re- 
coined by a succeeding emperor, many years 
after the death of the emperor to whose honour 
it was first struck. 

A friend of mine drew up a project of this 
kind during the late ministry, which would 
then have been put in execution had it uot 
been too busy a time for thoughts of that na- 
ture. As this project has been very mur-h 
talked of by the gentleman above-mentioned 
to men of the greatest genius, as well as qua- 
lity ; I am informed there is now a design on 
foot for executing the proposal which was then 
made, and that we shall have several farthings 
and halfpence charged on the reverse with 
many of the glorious particulars of her ma- 
jesty's reign. This is one of those arts of peace 
which may very well deserve to be cultivated, 
and which may be of great use to posterity. 

As I have in my possession the copy of the 
paper above-mentioned, which was delivered to 
the late lord treasurer, I shall here give the 
public a sight of it; for I do not question but 
that the curious part of my readers will be 
very much pleased to see so much matter, and 
so many useful hints upon this subject, laid 
together in so clear and concise a manner. 

* The English have not been so careful as 



[No. 97. 

other polite nations to preserve the memory 
of ili< ir great actions and eveuts on medals. 
Their subject* are few, their mottoes and de- 

\ 1 es mean, and the coins themselves not nu- 
merous enough to spread among the people, 
or descend to posterity. 

' The French have outdone us in these par- 
ticulars, and hy the establishment of a society 
lor the invention of proper inscriptions and de- 
signs, have the whole history of their present 
king iu a regular series of medals. They have 
failed as well as the Euglish, in coining so 
small a number of each kind, and those of such 
costly metals, that each species may be lost in 
a few ages, and is at present no where to be 
met with but in the cabinets of the curious. 

' The ancient Romans took the only effectual 
method to disperse and preserve their medals, 
by making them their current money. 

* Every thing glorious or useful, as well in 
peace as war, gave occasion to a different coin. 
Not only an expedition, victory, or triumph, 
but the exercise of a solemn devotion, the re- 
mission of a duty or tax, a new temple, sea- 
port, or highway, were transmitted to posterity 
after this manuer. 

' The greatest variety of devices are on their 
copper money, which have most of the designs 
that are to be met with on the gold and silver, 
and several peculiar to that metal only. By 
this means they were dispersed into the re- 
motest corners of the empire, came into the 
possession of the poor as well as rich, and were 
in no danger of perishing in the hands of those 
that might have melted down coins of a more 
valuable metal. 

'Add to all this, that the designs were in- 
vented by men of genius, and executed by a 
decree of senate. 

' It is therefore proposed, 

' I. That the English farthings and halfpence 

be re-coiued upon the union of the two nations. 

II. That they bear devices and inscriptions 

alluding to all the most remarkable parts of 

her majesty's reign. 

'III. That there be a society established for 
the finding out of proper subjects, inscriptions, 
and devices. 

IV. That no subject, inscription, or device, 
be stamped without the approbation of this 
society, nor if it be thought proper, without 
the authority of pi ivy-council. 

By this means, medals that are at present 
only a dead treasure, or mere curiosities, will 
be of use in the ordinary commerce of life, 
and at the same time, perpetuate the glories 
of her majesty's reign, reward the labours of 
her greatest subjects, keep alive ill the people 
a gratitude for public services, and excite the 
emulation of posterity. To these generous 
purposes nothing can so much contribute as 
medals of this kind, which arc of undoubted 
authority, of necessary use and observation, 

not perishable by time, nor confined to any 
certain place; properties not to be found in 
books, statues, pictures, buildings, or any other 
monuments of illustrious actions. o^. 

No. 97.] Thursday, July <2, 1713. 

— Furor est |)o?t omnia perdere nullum. 

Jut: Sal. viii. 97. 
'lis mad to Lavish what tlair rapine left. 


' SIR, 

' I was left a thousand pounds by an uncle, 
and being a man to my thinking very likely to 
get a rich widow, I laid aside all thoughts of 
making my fortune any other way, and with- 
out loss of time made my application to one 
who had buried her husband about a week be- 
fore. By the help of some of her she-friends 
who were my relations, I got into her company 
when she would see no man besides myself and 
her lawyer, who is a little, rivelled, spindle- 
shanked gentleman, and married to boot, so 
that I had no reason to fear him. Upon my 
first seeing her, she said in conversation within 
my hearing, that she thought a pale complexion 
the most agreeable either in man or woman. 
Now you must know, sir, my face is as white 
as chalk. This gave me some encouragement ; 
so that to mend the matter I bought a fine 
flaxen long wig that cost me thirty guineas, 
and found an opportunity of seeing her in it 
the next day. She then let drop some ex- 
pressions about an agate snuff-box. I imme- 
diately took the hint, and bought one, being 
unwilling to omit any thing that might make 
me desirable in her eyes. I was betrayed after 
the same manner into a brocade waistcoat, a 
sword knot, a pair of silver fringed gloves, and 
a diamond ring. But whether out of fickleness 
or a design upon me, I cannot tell ; but I found 
by her discourse, that what she liked one day, 
she disliked another: so that in six months' 
space I was forced lo equip myself above a 
dozen times. As I told you before, I took her 
hints at a distance, for 1 could never find an 
opportunity of talking with her directly to the 
point. All this time, however, I was allowed 
the utmost familiarities with her lap-dog, and 
have played with it above an hour together, 
without receiving the least reprimand, and had 
many other marks of favour shown me, which 
I thought amounted to a promise. If she 
chanced to drop her fan, she received it from 
my hands with great civility. If she wanted 
any thing, I reached it for her. 1 have filled 
her tea-pot above a hundred times, and have 
afterwards received a dish of it from her own 
hands. Now, sir, do you judge, if after such 
encouragements, she was not obliged to marry 
me. I forgot to tell you that I kept a chair 
by the week, on purpose to carry me thither 
and back again. Not lo trouble you with a 

No. 97.] 



long letter, in the space of about a twelvemonth 
I have run out of my whole thousand pound 
upon her, having laid out the last fifty in a new 
suit of clothes, in which I was resolved to re- 
ceive her final answer, which amounted to this, 
" that she was engaged to another ; that she 
never dreamt I had any such thing in my head 
as marriage; and that she thought I had fre- 
quented her house only because 1 loved to be in 
company with my relations." This, you know, 
sir, is using a man like a fool, and so I told her ; 
but the worst of it is, that I have spent my for- 
tune to no purpose. All, therefore, that I desire 
of you is, to tell me whether, upon exhibiting 
the several particulars which I have related to 
you, I may not sue her for damages in a court 
of justice. Your advice in this particular will 
very much oblige 

1 Your most humble admirer, 


Before I answer Mr. Softly's request, I find 
myself under a necessity of discussing two nice 
points. First of all, What it is, in cases of 
this nature, that amounts to an encourage- 
ment ; and secondly, What it is that amounts 
to a promise ? Each of which subjects requires 
more time to examine than I am at present 
master of. Besides, 1 would have my friend 
Simon consider, whether he has any counsel 
that will undertake his cause in forma pau- 
peris, he having unluckily disabled himself, by 
his own account of the matter, from prosecuting 
his suit any other way. 

In answer, however, to Mr. Softly's request, 
I shall acquaint him with a method made use 
of by a young fellow in king Charles the Se- 
cond's reign, whom I shall here call Silvio, 
who had long made love with much artifice 
and intrigue, to a rich widow, whose true 
name I shall conceal under that of Zelinda. 
Silvio, who was much more smitten with her 
fortune than her person, finding a twelve- 
month's application unsuccessful, was resolved 
to make a saving bargain of it; and since he 
could not get the widow's estate into his pos- 
session, to recover at least what he had laid 
out of his own in the pursuit of it. 

In order to this he presented her with a bill 
of costs, having particularised in it the several 
expenses he had beet) at in his long perplexed 
amour. Zelinda was so pleased with the hu- 
mour of the fellow, and his frank way of deal- 
ing, that, upon the perusal of the bill, she sent 
him a purse of fifteen hundred guineas, by the 
right application of which, the lover, in less 
than a year, got a woman of a greater fortune 
than her he had missed. The several articles 
in the bill of costs I pretty well remember, 
though I have forgotten the particular sum 
charged to each article. 

Laid out in supernumerary full-bottom wigs. 

Fiddles for a serenade, with a speaking 

Gilt paper in letters, and billet-doux, witn 
perfumed wax. 

A ream of sonnets and love- verses, purchased 
at different times of Mr. Triplet at a crown a 

To Zelinda, two sticks of May- cherries. 

Last summer at several times, a bushel o\ 

Three porters whom I planted about her to 
watch her motions. 

The first who stood centry near her door. 

The second who had his stand at the stables 
where her coach was put up. 

The third who kept watch at the corner of 
the street where Ned Courtall lives, who has 
since married her. 

Two additional porters planted over her 
during the whole month of May. 

Five conjurors kept in pay all last winter. 

Spy-money to John Trott her footman, and 
Mrs. Sarah Wheedle her companion. 

A new Conningsmark blade to fight Ned 

ToZelinda's woman (Mrs. Abigail) an Indian 
fan, a dozen pair of white kid gloves, a piece 
of Flanders lace, and fifteen guineas in dry 

Secret-service money to Betty at the ring. 

Ditto to Mrs. Tape the mantua- maker. 

Loss of time. ^ 

No. 98.] Friday, July 3, 1713. 


Virg. Georg. iv. 414. 

He resumes himself. 

The first who undertook to instruct the 
world in single papers was Isaac Bickerstaff of 
famous memory : a man nearly related to the 
family of the Ironsides. We have often 
smoked a pipe together; for I was so much 
in his .books, that at his decease he left me a 
eilver standish, a pair of spectacles, and the lamp 
by which he used to write his lucubrations. 

The venerable Isaac was succeeded by a 
gentleman of the same family, very memorable 
for the shortness of his face and of his speeches. 
This ingenious author published his thoughts, 
and held his tongue with great applause, for 
two years together. 

I Nestor Ironside, have now for some time 
undertaken to fill the place of these my two 
renowned kinsmen and predecessors. For it is 
observed of every branch of our family, that 
we have all of us a wonderful inclination to 
give good advice, though it is remarked of some 
of us, that we are apt on this occasion, rather 
to give than take. 

However it be, I cannot but observe with 
some secret pride, that this way of writing 
diurnal papers has not succeeded for any space 
of time in the hands of any persons who are 
not of our line. I believe I speak within eom» 



puss, when I affirm that above a hundred dif- 
ferent Mltbon have mdeavourcd after our 
famih-wav of R riling, some of which have been 
written in OtbeK kinds of the greatest eminence 
in the kingdom: but I do not know how it 
has happened, they have none of them hit 
upon the art. Their projects have always dropt 
after a few unsuccessful essays. It puts me in 
mind of a story which was lately told me by a 
pleasant friend of mine, who has a very fine 
hand on the violin. His maid servant seeing 
his instrument lying upon the table, and being 
sensihie there was music in it, if she knew 
how to fetch it out, drew the bow over every 
part of the strings, and at last told her master 
she had tried the fiddle all over, but could not 
for her heart find where about the tune lay. 

But though the whole burden of such a 
paper is only fit to rest on the shoulders of a 
liickerstaff or an Ironside; there are several 
who can acquit themselves of a single day's 
labour in it with suitable abilities. These are 
gentlemen whom I have often invited to this 
trial of wit, and who have several of them ac- 
quitted themselves to my private emolument ; 
as well as to their own reputation. My paper 
among the republic of letters is the Ulysses his 
bow, in which every man of wit or learning 
may try his strength. One who does not care 
to write a book without being sure <,f his abi- 
lities, may see by this means if his parts and 
talents are to the public taste. 

This 1 take to be of great advantage to men 
of the best sense, who are always diffident of 
their private judgment, until it receives a sanc- 
tion from the public. ' Provoco ad populum,' 
* 1 appeal to the people,' was the usual saying 
of a very excellent dramatic poet, when he had 
any dispute with particular persons about the 
justness and regularity of his productions. It 
is but a melancholy comfort for an author to 
be satisfied that he has written up to the rules 
of art, when he finds he has no admirers in 
the world besides himself. Common modesty 
should, on this occasion, make a man suspect 
his own judgment, and that he misapplies the 
rules of his art, when he finds himself singular 
in the applause which he bestows upon his 
own writings. 

The public is always even with an author 
who has not a just deference for them. The 
contempt is reciprocal. ' J laugh at every one,' 
said an old cynic, ' who laughs at me.' * Do 
you so,' replied the philosopher ; ' then let me 
tell you, you live the merriest life of any man 
in Athens.' 

It is not, therefore, the least use cf this my 
paper, that it gives a timorous writer, and 
Budl is every good one, an opportunity of put- 
ting his abilities to the proof, and of sounding 
the public before he launches into it. For this 
reason I look upon my paper as a kind of nur- 
lery for authors, and question not but some 

[Xo. 99. 

who have made a good figure here, will here- 
after flourish under their own names in more 
long and elaborate works. 

After having thus far enlarged upon this 
particular, I have one favour to beg of the 
candid and courteous reader, that when he 
meets with any thing in this paper which may 
appear a little dull and heavy (though 1 hope 
this will not be often) he will believe it is the 
work of some other person, and not of Nestor 

1 have, I know not how, been diawn into 
tattle of myself, more majorum, almost the 
length of a whole Guardian ; I shall, therefore, 
fill up the remaining part of it with what still 
relates to my own person and my correspon- 
dents. Now I would have them all know, that 
on the twentieth instant it is my intention to 
erect a lion's head in imitation of those I have 
described in Venice, through which all the pri- 
vate intelligence of that commonwealth is said 
to pass. This head is to open a most wide and 
voracious mouth, which shall take in such let- 
ters and papers as are conveyed to me by my 
correspondents, it being my resolution to have 
a particular regard to all such matters as come 
to my hands through the mouth of the lion. 

There will be under it a box, of which the 
key will be kept in my own custody, to rece'ne 
such papers as are dropped into it. Whatever 
the lion swallows I shall digest for the use of 
the public. This head requires some time to 
finish, the workman being resolved to give it 
several masterly touches and to represent it 
as ravenous as possible. It will be set up in 
Button's coffee-house in Covent-garden,* who 
is directed to show the way to the lion's head, 
and to instruct any young author how to con- 
vey bis works into the mouth of it with safety 
and secrecy. jr> 

No. 99.] Saturday, July 4, 1713. 

Justum et tenaccm propositi virum, 
Non civiuni ardor prava jubentiunr, 
Non vultus in.-taniis ts ranni 
Monte iiu.u it solid* ; Deque auster 
Dux inquieti turbidns Adriae, 
Nee fulminantis magna Jovis manus : 
Si li actus illabatur orbis, 
Inipavidum ferienl ruinae. Hor. Lib. 3. Od. iii. 1. 

The man resolv'd and steady to his trust, 
Inflexible to ill, and obstinately just. 
May the rude rabble's insolence despise, 
Their senseless clamours, and tumultuous cries: 

I be tyrant's fierceness he beguiles, 
And the stein brow, and the harsh voice defies 

And with superior greatness smilis. 

Not the rough whirlwind, that deforms 
Adda's black gulph, and vexes it with storms, 

• The lion's head, formerly at Button's he us \wzs 
preserved many years at the Shakspeaic tavern in Ccver.t 
garden ; the master of the tavern becoming a bankrupt, it 
was sold among his effects, Nov. 8, 1804, for 17/. 10s. 

No. 99.] 



The stubborn virtue of his soul can move ; 

Not the red arm of angry Jove, 

That flings the thunder from the sky, 
And gives it rage to roar, and stiength to fly. 
Should the whole frame of nature round him break, 

In ruin and confusion hurl'd, 
He unconcern'd would hear the mighty crack, 
And stand secure amidst a falling world. Anon. 

There is no virtue so truty great and god- 
like as justioe. Most of the other virtues are 
the virtues of created beings, or accommodated 
to our nature as we are men. Justice is that 
which is practised by God himself, and to be 
practised in its perfection by none but him. 
Omniscience and omnipotence are requisite 
for the full exertion of it. The one to discover 
every degree of uprightness or iniquity in 
thoughts, words, and actions ; the other, to 
measure out and impart suitable rewards and 

As to be perfectly just is an attribute in the 
divine nature, to be so to the utmost of our 
abilities is the glory of a man. Such a one, 
who has the public administration in his hands, 
acts like the representative of his maker, in 
recompensing the virtuous, and punishing the 
offender. By the extirpating of a criminal he 
averts the judgments of Heaven, when ready 
to fall upon an impious people ; or, as my friend 
Cato expresses it much better, in a sentiment 
conformable to his character, 

' When by just vengeance impious mortals peiish, 
The gods behold their punishment with pleasure, 
And lay tlf uplifted thunderbolt aside.' 

When a nation once loses its regard to jus- 
tice ; when they do not look upon it as some- 
thing venerable, holy, and inviolable ; when 
any of them dare presume to lessen, affront, or 
terrify those who have the distribution of it in 
their hands; when a judge is capable of being 
influenced by any thing but law, or a cause 
may be recommended by any thing that is 
foreign to its own merits, we may venture to 
pronounce that such a nation is hastening to 
its ruin. 

For this reason the best law that has ever 
past in our days, is that which continues our 
judges in their posts during their good beha- 
viour, without leaving them to the mercy of 
such who in ill times might, by an undue in- 
fluence over them, trouble and pervert the 
course of justice. I dare say the extraordinary 
person who is now posted in the chief station 
of the law, would have been the same had that 
act never past ; but it is a great satisfaction to 
all honest men, that while we see the greatest 
ornament of the profession in its highest post, 
we are sure he cannot hurt himself by that 
assiduous, regular, and impartial administration 
of justice, for which he is so universally cele- 
brated by the whole kingdom. Such men are 
to be reckoned among the greatest national 
blessings, and should have that honour paid 
them whilst they are yet living, which will not 
fail to crown their memory when dead. 

1 always rejcice when I see a tribunal filled 
with a man of an upright and inflexible tem- 
per, who in the execution of his country's laws 
can overcome all private fear, resentment, 
solicitation, and even pity itself. Whatever 
passion enters into a sentence or decision, so 
far will there be in it a tincture of injustice. 
In short, justice discards party, friendship, 
kindred, and is therefore always represented 
as blind, that we may suppose her thoughts 
are wholly intent on the equity of a cause, 
without being diverted or prejudiced by objects 
foreign to it. 

I shall conclude this paper with a Persian 
story, which is very suitable to my present 
subject. It will not a little please the reader, 
if he has the same taste of it which I myself 

As one of the sultans lay encamped on the 
plains of Avala, a certain great man of the 
army entered by force into a peasant's house, 
and finding his wife very handsome, turned the 
good man out of his dwelling and went to bed 
to her. The peasant complained the next 
morning to the sultan, and desired redress; 
but was not able to point out the criminal. 
The emperor, who was very much incensed at 
the injury done to the poor man, told him that 
probably the offender might give his wife an- 
other visit, and if he did, commanded him im- 
mediately to repair to his tent and acquaint 
him with it. Accordingly, within two or three 
days the officer entered again the peasant's 
house, and turned the owner out of doors ; who 
thereupon applied himself to the imperial tent, 
as he was ordered. The sultan went in person, 
with his guards, to the poor man's house, where 
he arrived about midnight. As the attendants 
carried each of them a flambeau in their hands, 
the sultan, after having ordered all the lights 
to be put out, gave the word to enter the 
house, find out the criminal, and put him to 
death. This was immediately executed, and 
the corpse laid out upon the floor by the em- 
peror's command. He then bid every one light 
his flambeau, and stand about the dead body. 
The sultan approaching it, looked about the 
faGe, and immediately fell upon his knees in 
prayer. Upon his rising up, he ordered the 
peasant to set before him whatever food be had 
in his house. The peasant brought out a good 
deal of coarse fare, of which the emperor ate 
very heartily. The peasant seeing him in good 
humour, presumed to ask of him, why he had 
ordered the flambeaux to be put out before he 
had commanded the adulterer should be slain ? 
Why, upon their being lighted again, he looked 
upon the face of the dead body, and fell down 
in prayer ? And why, after this, he had ordered 
meat to be set before him, of which he now 
eat so heartily? The sultan being willing to 
gratify the curiosity of his host, answered him 
in this manner. ' Upon hearing the greatness 



[No. 100. 

Oi the otiei.ce which had been committed by 

one of the army, I had reason to think it might 
have been one of my own sons, for who else 
would have bun so audacious and presuming! 
orders therefore for the lights to he ex- 
tinguished, that 1 might not be ltd astray, by 
partiality or compassion, from doing justice on 
the criminal. Upon the lighting the flambeaux 
a second time, I looked upon the face of the 
dead person, and, to my unspeakable joy, found 
it was not my son. It was for this reason that 
J immediately fell upon my knees and gave 
thanks to God. As for my eating heartily of 
the food you have set before me, you will cease 
to wonder at it, when you know that the great 
anxiety of mind I have been in upon this occa- 
sion, since the first complaints you brought 
me, has hindered my eating any thing from 
that time until this very moment.' o 

No. 100.] Monday, July 6, 1713. 

Hoc vos praecipe, niveae, deed, hoc ubi vtctt, 
Oscula ferre bnraero, qua patct, usque libct. 

Ovid. Ars Amator. Lib. iii. 30y. 

If snowy white your neck, you still should wear 
That, and the shoulder of the left arm, bare ; 
Such sights ne'er fail to fire my am'rous heart, 
And make me pant to kiss the naked part. 


There is a certain female ornament by some 
called a tucker, and by others the neck-piece, 
being a slip of fine linen or muslin that used 
to run in a small kind of ruffle round the 
uppermost verge of the women's stays, and by 
that means covered a great part of the shoulders 
and bosom. Having thus given a definition, 
or rather description of the tucker, I must take 
notice that our ladies have of late thrown aside 
this fig-leaf, and exposed in its primitive naked- 
ness that gentle swelling of the breast which it 
was used to conceal. What their design by it 
is, they themselves best know. 

I observed this as I was sitting the other day 
by a famous she-visitant at my lady Lizard's, 
when accidently as I was looking upon her 
face, letting my sight fall into her bosom, I 
was surprised with beauties which I never be- 
fore discovered, and do not know where my 
tye would have run, if I had not immediately 
checked it. The lady herself could not forbear 
blushing, when she observed by my looks that 
she bad made her neck too beautiful and glaring 
an object, even for a man of my character and 
gravity. 1 rould scarce forbear making use of 
my band to cover so unseemly a sight. 

II we survey the pictures of our great grand- 
mot In :ri in queen Elisabeth's time, we see them 

clothed down to the very wrists, and up to the 
very < -bin. The bands and face were the only 
rumples they gave of their beautiful persons. 
The following age of females made larger dis- 
coveries of their complexion. They first of all 

tucked up their garments to the elbow, and 
notwithstanding the tenderness of the sex, 
were content, for the information of mankind, 
to expose their arms to the coldness of the air, 
and injuries of the weather. This artifice hath 
succeeded to their wishes, and betrayed many 
to their arms, who might have escaped them 
had they been still concealed. 

About the same time, the ladies consideriug 
that the neck was a very modest part in a hu- 
man body, they freed it from those yokes, I 
mean those monstrous linen ruffs, in which 
the simplicity of their grandmothers had in- 
closed it. In proportion as the age refined, the 
dress still sunk lower; so that when we now 
say a woman has a handsome neck, we reckon 
into it many of the adjacent parts. The disuse 
of the tucker has still enlarged it, insomuch 
that the neck of a fine woman at present takes 
in almost half the body. 

Since the female neck thus grows upon us, 
and the ladies seem disposed to discover them- 
selves to us more and more, I would fain have 
them tell us once for all, how far they intend 
to go, and whether they have yet determined 
among themselves where to make a stop. 

For my own part, their necks, as they call 
them, are no more than busts of alabaster in 
my eye. I can look upon 

' The yielding marble of a snowy breast,' 

with as much coldness as this line of Mr. Waller 
represents in the object itself. But my fair 
readers ought to consider that all their be- 
holders are not Nestors. Every man is not 
sufficiently qualified with age and philosophy, to 
be an indifferent spectator of such allurements. 
The eyes of young men are curious and pene- 
trating, their imaginations are of a roving na- 
ture, and their passion under no discipline or 
restraint. I am in pain for a woman of rank, 
when I see her thus exposing herself to the 
regards of every impudent staring fellow. How 
can she expect that her quality can defend 
her, when she gives such provocation ? 1 could 
not but observe last winter, that upon the 
disuse of the neck-piece (the ladies will pardon 
me, if it is not the fashionable term of art) the 
whole tribe of oglers gave their eyes a new 
determination, aud stared the fair sex in the 
neck rather than in the face. To prevent 
these saucy familiar glauces, I would entreat 
my gentle readers to sew on their tuckers 
again, to retrieve the modesty of their charac- 
ters, and not to imitate the nakedness, but the 
innocence, of their mother Eve. 

What most troubles and indeed surprises me 
in this particular, I have observed that the 
leaders in this fashion were most of them mar- 
ried women. What their design can be in 
making themselves bare 1 cannot possibly ima- 
gine. Nobody exposes wares that are appro- 
priated. When the bird is takeu, the snare 

No. 101.] 



ought to be removed. It was a remarkable 
circumstance in the institution of the severe 
Lycurgus: as that great lawgiver knew that 
the wealth and strength of a republic consisted 
in the multitude of citizens, he did all he could 
to encourage marriage. In order to it he pre- 
scribed a certain loose dress for the Spartan 
maids, in which there were several artificial 
rents and openings, that upon their putting 
themselves in motion, discovered several limbs 
of the body to the beholders. Such were the 
baits and temptations made use of by that 
wise lawgiver, to incline the young men of 
his age to marriage. But when the maid was 
once sped, she was not suffered to tantalize the 
male part of the commonwealth. Her gar- 
ments were closed up, and stitched together 
with the greatest care imaginable. The shape 
of her limbs and complexion of her body had 
gained their ends, and were ever after to be 
concealed from the notice of the public. 

I shall conclude this discourse of the tucker 
with a moral which I have taught upon all 
occasions, and shall still continue to inculcate 
into my female readers ; namely, that nothing 
bestows so much beauty on a woman as mo- 
desty. This is a maxim laid down by Ovid 
himself, the greatest master in the art of love. 
He observes upon it, that Venus pleases most 
when she appears (semi-reducta) in a figure 
withdrawing herself from the eye of the be- 
holder. It is very probable he had in his 
thoughts the statue which we see in the Venus 
de Medicis, where she is represented in such a 
shy retiring posture, and covers her bosom 
with one of her hands. In short, modesty 
gives the maid greater beauty than even the 
bloom of youth, it bestows on the wife the 
dignity of a matron, and reinstates the widow 
in her viginity. ^ 

No. 101.] Tuesday, July 7, 1713. 

Tros Tyriusve mihi nullo discrimine habetur. 

Virg. Mb. i. 578. 
Trojan and Tyrian differ but in name, 
Both to my favour have an equal claim. 

This being the great day of thanksgiving 
for the peace, I shall present my reader with 
a couple of letters that are the fruits of it. 
They are written by a gentleman who has 
taken this opportunity to see France, and has 
given his friends in England a general account 
of what he has there met with, in several epis- 
tles. Those which follow were put into my 
hands with liberty to make them public, and 
I question not but my reader will think him- 
self obliged to me for so doing. 

* Since I had the happiness tp see you last, 
I have encountered as many misfortunes as a 
knight-errant. 1 had a fall into the water at 

Calais, and since that, several bruises upon th«j 
land, lame post-horses by day, and hard beds 
at night, with many other dismal adventures, 

" Quorum animus memiuisse horret luctuque refngit. 

Virg. fen. ii. 12. 
" At which my memory with grief recoils." 

* My arrival at Paris was at first no less un- 
comfortable, where 1 could not see a face nor 
hear a word that I ever met with before ; so 
that my most agreeable companions have been 
statues and pictures, which are many of them 
very extraordinary; but what particularly re- 
commends them to me is, that they do not 
speak French, and have a very good quality, 
rarely to be met with in this country, of not 
being too talkative. 

' I am settled for some time at Paris. Since 
my being here I have made the tour of all the 
king's palaces, which has been, I think, the 
pleasantest part of my life. I could not believe 
it was in the power of art, to furnish out such 
a multitude of noble scenes as I there met 
with, or that so many delightful prospects 
could lie within the compass of a man's ima- 
gination. There is every thing done that can 
be expected from a prince who removes moun- 
tains, turns the course of rivers, raises woods 
in a day's time, and plants a village or town 
on such a particular spot of ground, only for 
the bettering of a view. One would wonder 
to see how many tricks he has made the water 
play for his diversion. It turns itself into 
pyramids, triumphal arches, glass bottles, imi- 
tates a fire work, rises in a mist, or tells a 
story out of ^Esop. 

* I do not believe, as good a poet as you are, 
that you can make finer landscapes than those 
about the king's houses, or, with all your de- 
scriptions, raise a more magnificent palace 
than Versailles. I am, however, so singular as 
to prefer Fontainbleau to all the rest. It is 
situated among rocks and woods, that give you 
a fine variety of salvage prospects. The king 
has humoured the genius of the place, and only 
made use of so much art as is necessary to 
help and regulate nature, without reforming 
her too much. The cascades seem to break 
through the clefts and cracks of rocks that are 
covered over with moss, and look as if they 
were piled upon one another by accident. There 
is an artificial wildness in the meadows, walks, 
and canals ; and the garden, instead of a wall, 
is fenced on the lower end by a natural mound 
of rock-work that strikes the eye very agree- 
ably. For my part, I think there is something 
more charming in these rude heaps of stone 
than in so many statues, and would as soon 
see a river winding through woods and mea- 
dows, as when it is tossed up in so many whim- 
sical figures at Versailles. To pass from works 
of nature to those of art : In my opinion, the 
pleasantest part of Versailles is the gallery. 



[No. 102. 

Every one sees on each 6ide of it something 
that will he sure to please him. For one of 
them eommandl a view of the finest garden in 
the world, and the other is wainscoted with 
looking-glass. The history of the present 
king until the year 16 — is painted on the roof 
iiv Le Brun, so that his majesty has actions 
enough by him to furnish another gallery 
much longer than the present. 

1 The painter has represented his most Chris- 
tian majesty under the figure of Jupiter, throw- 
ing thunderbolts all about the ceiling, and 
striking terror into the Danube and Rhine, 
that lie astonished and blasted with lightning 
a little above the cornice. 

But what makes all these shows the more 
agreeable, is the great kindness and affability 
that is shown to strangers. If the French do 
not excel the English in all the arts of huma- 
nity, they do at least in the outward expres- 
sions of it. And upon this, as well as other 
accounts, though I believe the English are a 
much wiser nation, the French are undoubtedly 
much more happy. Their old men in parti- 
cular are, I believe, the most agreeable in the 
world. An antediluvian could not have more 
life and briskness in him at threescore and ten : 
for that fire and levity which makes the young 
ones scarce conversible, when a little wasted 
and tempered by years, makes a very pleasant 
and gay old age. Besides, this national fault 
of being so very talkative looks natural and 
graceful in one that has grey hairs to counte- 
nance it. The mentioning this fault 'n the 
French must put me in mind to finish my 
letter, lest you think me already too much in- 
fected by their conversation ; but 1 must desire 
you to consider, that travelling does in this 
respect lay a little claim to the privilege of old 
age. * I am, Sir, &c.' 

" SIR, Blois, May 15, N. S. 

I cannot pretend to trouble you with any 
news from this place, where the only advan- 
tage I have besides getting the language, is to 
see the manners and tempers of the people, 
which I believe may be better learnt here than 
in courts and greater cities, where artifice and 
disguise are more in fashion. 

' I have already seen, as I informed you in 
my last, all the king's palaces, and have now 
seen a great part of the country. I never 
thought there had been in the world such an 
excessive magnificence or poverty as I have 
met with in both together. One can scarce 
conceive the pomp that appears in every thing 
about the king ; but at the same time it makes 
half his subjects go bare-foot. The people are, 
however, the happiest in the world, and enjoy, 
from the benefit of their climate, and natural 
Constitution, lUch a perpetual gladness of heart 
and easiness of temper as even liberty and 
plenty cannot bestow on those of other nations. 

It is not in the power of want or slavery to 
make them miserable. There is nothing to 
be met with in the country but mirth and 
poverty. Every one sings, laughs, and starves. 
Their conversation is generally agreeable ; for 
if they have any wit or sense, they are sure to 
show it. They never mend upon a second 
meeting, but use all the freedom and familia- 
rity at first sight, that a long intimacy or 
abundance of wine, can scarce draw from an 
Englishman. Their women are perfect mis- 
tresses in the art of showing themselves to the 
best advantage. They are always gay and 
sprightly, and set off the worst faces in Europe 
yvith the best airs. Every one knows how to 
give herself as charming a look and posture as 
sir Godfrey Kneiler could draw her in. I can- 
not end my letter without observing, that from 
what I have already seen of the world, I can- 
not but set a particular mark of distinction 
upon those who abound most in the virtues of 
their nation, and least with its imperfections. 
When, therefore, I see the good sense of an 
Englishman in its highest perfection without 
any mixture of the spleen, I hope you will ex- 
cuse me, if I admire the character, and am 
ambitious of subscribing myself, 

' Sir, yours, &c.' 

No. 102.] Wednesday, July 8, 1713. 

NaiM ad flumina primdm 

Defcnnius, sfevoqne gelu duramus ct andis. 

Pirg. .'En. ix. 003. 
Strong from the cradle, of a sturdy brood, 
We bear our new-born infants to the Hood ; 
There bath'd amid the stream, our boys we ho.d, 
With winter harden'd, and inur'd to cold. Dryden. 

I AM always beating about in my thoughts 
for something that may turn to the benefit of 
my dear countrymen. The present season off 
the year having put most of them in slight 
summer-suits, has turned my speculations to 
a subject that concerns every one who is sen- 
sible of cold or heat, which 1 believe takes in 
the greatest part of my readers. 

There is nothing in nature more inconstant 
than the British climate, if we except the hu- 
mour of its inhabitants. We have frequently 
in one day all the seasons of the year. 1 have 
shivered in the dog-days, and been forced to 
throw off my coat in January. 1 have gone to 
bed in August, and rose in December. Summer 
has often caught me in my drap de Berry, 
and winter in my Doily suit. 

I remember a very whimsical fellow (com- 
monly known by the name of Posture-master) 
in king Charles the Second's reign, who was 
the plague of all the tailors about town. He 
would often seud for one of them to take mea- 
sure of him, hut would so contrive it as to 
have a most immoderate rising in one of his 
shoulders, When the clothes were brought 

No. 102.] 



home and tried upon him, the deformity was 
removed into the other shoulder. Upon which 
the tailor begged pardon for the mistake, and 
mended it as fast as he could, but upon a third 
trial found him a straight-shouldered man as 
one would desire to see, but a little unfortu- 
nate in a hump back. In short, this wander- 
ing tumour puzzled all the workmen about 
town, who found it impossible to accommodate 
so changeable a customer. My reader will apply 
this to any one who would adapt a suit to a 
season of our English climate. 

After this short descant on the uncertainty 
of our English weather, I come to my moral. 

A man should take care that his body be 
not too soft for his climate ; but rather, if pos- 
sible, harden and season himself beyond the 
degree of cold wherein he lives. Daily expe- 
rience teaches us how we may inure ourselves 
by custom to bear the extremities of weather 
without injury. The inhabitants of Nova 
Zembla go naked, without complaining of the 
bleakness of the air in which they are born, as 
the armies of the northern nations keep the 
field all winter. The softest of our British 
ladies expose their arms and necks to the open 
air, which the men could not do without catch- 
ing cold, for want of being accustomed to it. 
The whole body by the same means might 
contract the same firmness and temper. The 
Scythian that was asked how it was possible 
for the inhabitants of his frozen climate to go 
naked, replied, ' Because we are all over face.' 
Mr. Locke advises parents to have their chil- 
dren's feet washed every morning in cold water, 
which might probably prolong multitudes of 

I verily believe a cold bath would be one of 
the most healthful exercises in the world, were 
it made use of in the education of youth. It 
would make their bodies more than proof to 
the injuries of the air and weather. It would 
be something like what the poets tell us of 
Achilles, whom his mother is said to have 
dipped, when he was a child, in the river Styx. 
The story adds, that this made him invulner- 
able all over, excepting that part which his 
mother held in her hand during this immersion, 
and which by that means lost the benefit of 
these hardening waters. Our common practice 
runs in a quite contrary method. We are per- 
petually softening ourselves by good fires and 
warm clothes. The air within our rooms has 
generally two or three degrees more of heat in 
it than the air without doors. 

Crassus is an old lethargic valetudinarian. 
For these twenty years last past he has been 
clothed in frize of the same colour, and of the 
same piece. He fancies he should catch his 
death in any other kind of manufacture; and 
though his avarice would incline him to wear 
it until it was threadbare, he dares not do it 
lest he should take cold when the knap is off. 

He could no more live without his frize coat, 
than without his skin. It is not indeed so 
properly his coat as what the anatomists call 
one of the integuments of the body. 

How different an old man is Crassus from 
myself! It is, indeed, the particular distinction 
of the Ironsides to be robust and hardy, to defy 
the cold and rain, and let the weather do its 
worst. My father lived till a hundred with- 
out a cough ; and we have a tradition in the 
family, that my grandfather used to throw off 
his hat, and go open-breasted, after fourscore, 
As for myself, they used to sowse me over head 
and ears in water when I was a boy, so that 
I am now looked upon as one of the most 
case-hardened of the whole family of the Iron- 
sides. In short, I have been so plunged in 
water and inured to the cold, that I regard 
myself as a piece of true-tempered Steel, and 
can say with the above-mentioned Scythian, 
that I am face, or, if my enemies please, fore- 
head, all over. 

No. 103.] Thursday, July 9, 1713. 

Dum flammas Jovis, et sonitus imitatur olympi. 

Virg. Mn. vi. 586. 

With mimic thunder impiously he plays, 
And darts the artificial lightning's blaze. 

I AM considering how most of the great phe- 
nomena or appearances in nature, have been 
imitated by the art of man. Thunder is grown 
a common drug among the chymists. Lightning 
may be bought by the pound. If a man has 
occasion for a lambent flame, you have whole 
sheets of it in a handful of phosphor. Showers 
of rain are to be met with in every water- work ; 
and we are informed, that some years ago the 
virtuosos of France covered a little vault with 
artificial snow, which they made to fall above 
an hour together for the entertainment of his 
present majesty. 

I am led into this train of thinking by the 
noble fire-work that was exhibited last night 
upon the Thames. You might there see a 
little sky filled with innumerable blazing stars 
and meteors. Nothing could be more astonish- 
ing than the pillars of flame, clouds of smoke, 
and multitudes of stars mingled together in 
such an agreeable confusion. Every rocket 
ended in a constellation, and strowed the air 
with such a shower of silver spangles, as opened 
and enlightened the whole scene from time 
to time. It put me in mind of the lines in 

* Why from the bleeding womb of monstrous night 
Burst forth such myriads of abortive stars?' 

In short, the artist did his part to admiration, 
and was so encompassed with fire and smoke 
that one would have thought nothing but a 
salamander could have been safe in such a 



[No. 104, 

1 was iii company with two or three fanciful 
friends during this whole show. One of them 
being ■ critic, that is, a man who on all occa- 
sion- is more attentive to what is wanting than 
what i- present, began to exert his talent upon 
tin- leveral objects we had before ns. ' I am 
mightily pleased,' says he, ' with that burning 
cypher. There is no matter in the world so 
proper to write with as wild-fire, as no characters 
can be more legible than those which are read 
by their own light. But as for your cardinal 
virtues, I do not care for seeing them in such 
comhustihle figures. Who can imagine Chas- 
titv with a body of fire, or Temperance in a 
flame? Justice indeed may be furnished out 
of this element as far as her sword goes, and 
Courage may be all over one continued blaze, 
if the artist pleases.' 

Our companion observing that we laughed 
at this unseasonable severity, let drop the 
critic, and proposed a subject for a fire-work, 
which he thought would be very amusing, if 
executed by so able an artist as he who was 
at that time entertaining us. The plan he 
mentioned was a scene in Milton. He would 
have a large piece of machinery represent the 
Pandaemonium, where, 

from the arched roof 

Pendant by subtle magic, many a row 
Of starry lamps, and blazing cressets, fed 
With naphtha and asphaltos, yielded light 
As from a sky' 

This might be finely represented by several il- 
luminations disposed in a great frame of wood, 
with ten thousand beautiful exhalations of fire, 
which men versed in this art know very well 
how to raise. The evil spirits at the same time 
might very properly appear in vehicles of 
flame, and employ all the tricks of art to ter- 
rify and surprise the spectator. 

We were well enough pleased with this start 
of thought, but fancied there was something 
in it too serious, and perhaps too horrid, to be 
put in execution. 

Upon this a friend of mine gave us an ac- 
count of a fire-work described, if I am not 
mistaken, by Strada. A prince of Italy, it 
seems, entertained his mistress with it upon 
a great lake. In the midst of this lake was a 
huge floating mountain made by art. The 
mountain represented /Etna, being bored 
through the top with a monstrous orifice. 
Upon a signal given, the eruption began. Fire 
and smoke, mixed with several unusual prodi- 
gies and figures, made their appearance for 
some time. On a sudden there was heard a 
most dreadful rumbling noise within the en- 
trails of the machine. After which the moun- 
tain burst, and discovered avast cavity in that 
side winch faced the prince and his court. 
Within this hollow was Vulcan's shop, full of 
fire and clock-work. A column of blue flame 
toned oil! InceaMPtly from the forge. Vulcan 

was employed in hammering out thunderbolts, 
that every now and then flew up from the anvil 
with dreadful cracks and flashes. Venus stood 
by him in a figure of the brightest fire, with 
numberless Cupids on all sides of her, that shot 
out volleys of burning arrows. Before her was 
an altar with hearts of fire flaming on it. I 
have forgot several other particulars no less 
curious, aud have only mentioned these to 
show that there may be a sort of fahle or design 
in a fire- work which may give an additional 
beauty to those surprising objects. 

I seldom see any thing that raises wonder 
in me which does not give my thoughts a turn 
that makes my heart the better for it. As I 
was lying in my bed, and ruminating on what 
I had seen, 1 could not forbear reflecting on 
the insignificancy of human art, when set in 
comparison with the designs of Providence. 
In the pursuit of this thought I considered 
a comet, or, in the language of the vulgar, a 
blazing-star, as a sky-rocket discharged by 
a hand that is Almighty. Many of my readers 
saw that in the year 1680, and if they are not 
mathematicians, will be amazed to hear that 
it travelled in a much greater degree of swift- 
ness than a cannon-ball, and drew after it a 
tail of fire that was fourscore millions of miles 
in length. What an amazing thought it is to 
consider this stupendous body traversing the 
immensity of the creation with such a rapidity, 
and at the same time, wheeling about in that 
line which the Almighty has prescribed for it! 
that it should move in such inconceivable fury 
and combustion, and at the same time with 
such an exact regularity ! How spacious must 
the universe be that gives such bodies as these 
their full play, without suffering the least dis- 
order or confusion by it 1 What a glorious show 
are those beings entertained with, that can look 
into this great theatre of nature, and see my- 
riads of such tremendous objects wandering 
through those immeasurable depths of aether, 
and running their appointed courses ! Our eyes 
may hereafter he strong enough to command 
tlm magnificent prospect, and our understand- 
ings able to find out the several uses of these 
great parts of the universe. In the mean time 
they are very proper objects for our imagina- 
tions to contemplate, that we may form more 
exalted notions of infinite wisdom and power, 
and learn to think humbly of ourselves, and 
of all the little works of human invention. <&> 

No. 104.] Friday, July 10, 1713. 

Qua; e longinquo magis placent. T<u it 

The farther fetch'd, the more they please. 

On Tuesday last I published two letters 
written by a gentleman in his travels. As 
they were applauded by my best readers, I shall 

No. 10k] 



this day publish two more from the same hand. 
The first of them contains a matter of fact 
which is very curious, and may deserve the 
attention of those who are versed in our British 

' SIR, Blois, May 15, N. S. 

* Because I am at present out of the road 
of news, I shall send you a story that was lately 
given me by a gentleman of this country, who 
is descended from one of the persons concerned 
in the relation, and very inquisitive to know 
if there be any of the family now in England. 

1 I shall only premise to it, that this story 
is preserved with great care among the writings 
of this gentleman's family, and that it has been 
given to two or three of our English nobility, 
when they were in these parts, who could not 
return any satisfactory answer to the gentle- 
man, whether there be any of that family now 
remaining in Great Britain. 

* In the reign of king John there lived a 
nobleman called John de Sigonia, lord of that 
place in Touraine, his brothers were Philip and 
Briant. Briant, when very young, was made 
one of the French king's pages, and served him 
in that quality when he was taken prisoner by 
the English. The king of England chanced 
to seethe youth, and being much pleased with 
his person and behaviour, begged him of the 
king his prisoner. It happened, some years 
after this, that John, the other brother, who, 
in the course of the war had raised himself to 
a considerable post in the French army, was 
taken prisoner by Briant, who at that time was 
an officer in the king of England's guards. 
Briant knew nothing of his brother, and being 
naturally of a haughty temper, treated him 
very insolently, and more like a criminal than 
a prisoner of war. This John resented so highly, 
that he challenged him to a single combat. The 
challenge was accepted, and time and place as- 
signed them by the king's appointment. Both 
appeared on the day prefixed, and entered the 
lists completely armed, amidst a great multi- 
tude of spectators. Their first encounters were 
very furious, and the success equal on both 
sides ; until after some toil and bloodshed they 
were parted by their seconds to fetch breath, 
and prepare themselves afresh for the combat. 
Briant, in the mean time had cast his eye upon 
his brother's escutcheon, which he saw agree 
in all points with his own. I need not tell 
you after this, with what joy and surprise the 
story ends. King Edward, who knew all the 
particulars of it, as a mark of his esteem, gave 
to each of them, by the king of France's con- 
sent, the following coat of arms, which I will 
send you in the original language, not being 
herald enough to blazon it in English. 

" Le Roi d'Angleterre par permission du 
Roi de France, pour perpetuelle memoire de 
ieurs grands faits d'armes et fidelity envers 

leurs Rois, leur donna par ampliation a leurs 
armes en une croix d'argen cantoned de quatre 
coquillesd'or en champ de sable, qu ils avoient 
auparavant, une endenteleuse faite en fa«,'ons 
de croix de gueulle inseree au dedans de la 
ditte croix d'argent et par le milieu d'icelle 
que est participation des deux croix que por- 
tent les dits Rois en la guerre." 

' I am afraid by this time you begin to won- 
der that I should send you for news a tale of 
three or four hundred years old ; and I dare 
say never thought, when you desired me to 
write to you, that I should trouble you with a 
story of king John, especially at a time when 
there is a monarch on the French throne that 
furnishes discourse for all Europe. But I con- 
fess I am the more fond of the relation, because 
it brings to mind the noble exploits of our own 
countrymen : though at the same time I must 
own it is not so much the vanity of an English- 
man which puts me upon writing it, as that 
I have of taking an occasion to subscribe 
myself, Sir, 

' Yours, &c.' 

« SIR, Blois, May 20, N. S. 

* I am extremely obliged to you for your last 
kind letter, which was the only English that 
had been spoken to me in some months toge- 
ther, for I am at present forced to think the 
absence of my countrymen my good fortune: 

Votum in amante novum! vellum quod amatur abessef. 
Ovid. Met. Lib. iii. 4(J8. 

Strange wish to harbour in a lover's breast.' 
I wish that absent, which I love the best. 

* This is au advantage that I could not have 
hoped for, had I stayed near the French court, 
though I must confess I would not but have 
seen it, because I believe it showed me some 
of the finest places, and of the greatest persons 
in the world. One cannot hear a name men- 
tioned in it that does not bring to mind a piece 
of a gazette, nor see a man that has not sig- 
nalised himself in a battle. One would fancy 
one's self to be in the enchanted palaces of a 
romance ; one meets with so many heroes, and 
finds something so like scenes of magic in the 
gardens, statues, and water-works. I am 
ashamed that I am not able to make a quicker 
progress through the French tongue, because 
I believe it is impossible for a learner of a lan- 
guage to find in any nation such advantages as 
in this, where every body is so very courteous, 
and so very talkative. They always take care 
to make a noise as long as they are in company, 
and are as loud any hour in the morning, as 
our own countrymen at midnight. By what 
I have seen, there is more mirth in the French 
conversation, and more wit in the English. 
You abound more in jests, but they in laugh- 
ter. Their language is, indeed, extremely 
proper to tattle in, it is made up of so much 
repetition and compliment. One may know a 



[No. 105, 

foreigner by llis answering only No or Yi s to a 
question, which a Frenchman generally makes 
a sentence of. They have a set of ceremonious 
ohrases that run through all ranks and degrees 
among them. Nothing is more common than 
to hear a shop-keeper desiring his neighbour 
to have the goodness to tell him what it is 
o'clock, or a couple of cobblers, that are ex- 
tremely glad of the honour of seeiug one an- 

The face of the whole country where I now 
am, is at this season pleasant beyond imagi- 
nation. I cannot but fancy the birds of this 
place, as well as the men, a great deal merrier 
than those of our own nation. I am sure the 
French year has got the start of ours more in 
the works of nature, than in the new style. 
I have past one March in my life without 
being ruffled with the winds, and one April 
without being washed with rains. 

* I am, Sir, yours.' £> 

No. 105.] Saturday, July 11, 1713. 

Quod ncqne in Armeniis tigres fecere latebris : 

Perdere nee foetus ausa Leaena suos. 
At tenerae faciunt, sed non impune, pnellae ; 

Saepe, suos utero qua? necat, ipsa perit. 

Ovid. Amor. Lib. 2 Ele-g. xiv. 35. 

The tigresses, that haunt th' Armenian wood, 
Will spare their proper young, tho' pinch'd for food ! 
Nor will the Lybian lionesses slay 
Their whelps : but women are more fierce than they, 
More barbarous to the tender fruit they hear ; 
Nor Nature's call, tho' loud she cries, will bear. 
But righteous vengeance oft their crimes pursues, 
And they are lost themselves who would their children 
lose. Anon. 

There was no part of the show on the 
thanksgiving-day that so much pleased and 
affected me as the little boys and girls who 
were ranged with so much order and decency 
in that part of the Strand which reaches from 
the May-pole to Exeter-change. Such a nu- 
merous and innocent multitude, clothed in the 
charity of their benefactors, was a spectacle 
pleasing both to God and man, and a more 
beautiful expression of joy and thanksgiving 
than could have been exhibited by all the 
pomps of a Roman triumph. Never did a 
more full and unspotted chorus of human crea- 
tures join together in a hymn of devotion. The 
care and tenderness which appeared in the 
looks of their several instructors, who were 
disposed among this little helpless people, 
could not forbear touching every heart that 
had any sentiments of humanity. 

I am very sorry that her majesty did not see 
this assembly of objects, so proper to excite 
that charity and compassion which she bears 
to all who stand in need of it, though, at the 
■amfl time, 1 question not but her royal bounty 
will extend itself to them. A charity bestowed 
on the education of so many of her young sub- 

jects, has more merit in it than a thousand 
pensions to those of a higher fortune who are 
in greater stations in life. 

I have always looked on this institution 
charity-schools, which of late years has s.i 
universally prevailed through the whole nation, 
as the glory of the age we live in, and the 
most proper means that can be made use of to 
recover it out of its present degeneracy and 
depravation of manners. Jt seems to promise 
us an honest and virtuous posterity. There 
will be few in the next generation, who will 
not at least be able to write and read, and 
have not had an early tincture of religion. It 
is therefore to be hoped that the several per- 
sons of wealth and quality, who made their 
procession through the members of these new- 
erected seminaries, will not regard them only 
as an empty spectacle, or the materials of a 
fine show, but contribute to their maintenance 
and increase. For my part, 1 can scarce for- 
bear looking on the astonishing victories our 
arms have been crowned with, to be in some 
measure the blessings returned upon that na- 
tional charitv which has been so conspicuous 
of late; and that the great successes of the 
last war, for which we lately offered up our 
thanks, were in some measure occasioned by 
the several objects which then stood before us. 

Since I am upon this subject, 1 shall mention 
a piece of charity which has not been yet ex- 
erted among us, and which deserves our at- 
tention the more, because it is practised by 
most of the nations about us. I mean a pro- 
vision for foundlings, or for those children who, 
through want of such a provision, are exposed 
to the barbarity of cruel and unnatural parents. 
One does not know how to speak on such a 
subject without horror : but what multitudes 
of infants have been made away by those who 
brought them into the world, and were after- 
wards either ashamed, or unable to provide for 
them ! 

There is scarce an assizes where some un- 
happy wretch is not executed for the murder 
of a child. And how many more of these mon- 
sters of inhumanity may we suppose to be 
wholly undiscovered, or cleared for want of 
legal evidence! Not to mention those, who, 
by unnatural practices, do in some measure 
defeat the intentions of Providence, and de- 
stroy their conceptions even before they see 
the light. In all these the guilt is equal, 
though the punishment is not so. But to pass 
by the greatness of the crime (which is not to 
be expressed by words) if we only consider it 
as it robs the commonwealth of its full num- 
ber of citizens, it certainly deserves the ut- 
most application and wisdom of a people to 
prevent it. 

It is certain, that which generally betrays 
these profligate women into it, and overoomes 
the tenderness which is natural to them on 

No. 106.] 



other occasions, is the fear of shame, or their 
inability to support those whom they give life 
to. I shall therefore show how this evil is 
prevented in other countries, as I have learned 
from those who have been conversant in the 
several great cities of Europe. 

There are at Paris, Madrid, Lisbon, Rome, 
and many other large towns, great hospitals 
built like our colleges. In the walls of these 
hospitals are placed machines, in the shape of 
large lanthorns, with a little door in the side 
of them turned towards the street, and a bell 
hanging by them. The child is deposited in 
this lanthorn, which is immediately turned 
about into the inside of the hospital. The 
person who conveys the child, rings the bell, 
and leaves it there, upon which the proper 
officer comes and receives it without making 
further inquiries. The parent, or her friend, 
who lays the child there, generally leaves a 
note with it, declaring whether it be yet chris- 
tened, the name it should be called by, the 
particular marks upon it, and the like. 

It often happens that the parent leaves a 
note for the maintenance and education of the 
child, or takes it out after it has been some 
years in the hospital. Nay, it has been known 
that the father has afterwards owned the young 
foundling for his son, or left his estate to him. 
This is certain, that many are by this means 
preserved and do signal services to their coun- 
try, who without such a provision might have 
perished as abortives, or have come to an un- 
timely end, and perhaps have brought upon 
their guilty parents the like destruction. 

This I think is a subject that deserves our 
most serious consideration, for which reason 
I hope 1 shall not be thought impertinent in 
laying it before my readers. \$y. 

No. 106.] Monday, July 13, 1713. 

Quod latet arcana, non enarrabile, fibi a. 

Fers. Sat. v. 20. 

The deep recesses of the human breast. 

As I was making up my Monday's provision 
for the public, I received the following letter, 
which being a better entertainment than any 
1 can furnish out myself, I shall set it before 
the reader, and desire him to fall on without 
farther ceremony. 

* Your two kinsmen and predecessors of im- 
mortal memory, were very famous for their 
dreams and visions, and, contrary to all other 
authors, never pleased their readers more than 
when they were nodding. Now it is observed, 
that the second sight generally runs in the 
blood ; and, sir, we are in hopes that you your- 
self, like the rest of your family, may at length 
prove a dreamer of dreams, and a seer of visions. 

In the mean while 1 beg leave to make you a 
present of a dream, which may serve to lull 
your readers until such time as you yourself 
shall think fit to gratify the public with any 
of your nocturnal discoveries. 

* You must understand, sir, I had yesterday 
been reading and ruminating upon that pas- 
sage where Momus is said to have found fault 
with the make of a man, because he had not 
a window in his breast. The moral of this 
story is very obvious, and means no more than 
that the heart of man is so full of wiles and 
artifices, treachery and deceit, that there is 
no guessing at what he is, from his speeches, 
and outward appearances. I was immediately 
reflecting how happy each of the sexes would 
be, if there was a window in the breast of every 
one that makes or receives love. What pro- 
testations and perjuries would be saved on the 
one side, what hypocrisy and dissimulation on 
the other ! I am myself very far gone in this 
passion for Aurelia, a woman of an unsearchable 
heart. I would give the world to know the 
secrets of it, and particularly whether I am 
really in her good graces, or if not, who is the 
happy person. 

* 1 fell asleep in this agreeable reverie, when 
on a sudden methought Aurelia lay by my side. 
I was placed by her in the posture of Milton's 
Adam, and *' with looks of cordial love hung 
over her enamour'd." As I cast my eye upon 
her bosom, it appeared to be all of crystal, 
and so wonderfully transparent that I saw 
every thought in her heart. The first images 
I discovered in it were fans, silk, ribands, 
laces, and many other gewgaws, which lay so 
thick together, that the whole heart was no- 
thing else but a toy-shop. These all faded 
away and vanished, when immediately I dis- 
cerned a long train of coaches and six, equi- 
pages, and liveries, that ran through the heart 
one after another in a very great hurry for 
above half an hour together. After this, look- 
ing very attentively, I observed the whole 
space to be filled with a hand of cards, in 
which I could see distinctly three mattadors. 
There then followed a quick succession of dif- 
ferent scenes. A playhouse, a church, a court, 
a puppet-show, rose up one after another, until 
at last they ail of them gave place to a pair of 
new shoes, which kept footing in the heart for 
a whole hour. These were driven off at last 
by a lap-dog, who was succeeded by a guinea- 
pig, a squirrel, and a monkey. 1 myself, to 
my no small joy, brought up the rear of these 
worthy favourites. I was ravished at being so 
happily posted, and in full possession of the 
heart: but as I saw the little figure of myself 
simpering and mightily pleased with its situa- 
tion, on a sudden the heart methought gave a 
sigh, in which, as I found afterwards, my little 
representative vanished ; for upon applying my 
eye, I found my place taken up by an ill bred, 




[Nc. 107. 

awkward puppy, m'Ah a money-bag under each 
arm. This gentleman, however, did not keep 
hi> station long, before he yielded it up to a 

vigbt as disagreeable as himself, with a white 
vtnk in his hand. These three last figures 
represented to me, in a lively manner, the 
conflicts in Aurelia's heart, between love, ava- 
rice, and ambition, for we justled one another 
out by turns, and disputed the post for a great 
while. But at last, to my unspeakable satis- 
faction, I saw myself entirely settled in it. 
I was so transported with my success, that I 
could not forbear hugging my dear piece of 
crystal, when, to my unspeakable mortification, 
1 awaked, and found my mistress metamor- 
phosed into a pillow. 

' This is not the first time I have been thus 

* O venerable Nestor, if you have any skill 
in dreams, let me know whether I have the 
same place in the real heart, that I had in the 
visionary one. To tell you truly, I am per- 
plexed to death between hope and fear. 1 was 
very sanguine until eleven o'clock this morn- 
ing, when I overheard an unlucky old woman 
telling her neighbour that dreams always went 
by contraries. I did not, indeed, before much 
like the crystal heart, remembering that con- 
founded simile in Valentinian, of a maid " as 
cold as crystal never to be thawed." Besides, 
I verily believe if I had slept a little longer, 
cnat awkward whelp with his money-bags.would 
certainly have made his second entrance. If 
you can tell the fair one's mind, it will be no 
small proof of your art, for I dare say it is more 
than she herself can do. Every sentence she 
speaks is a riddle; all that I can be certain of 
is, that I am her and 

1 Your humble servant, 


No. 107.] Tuesday, July 14, 1713. 

tendanda via est Virg. Georg. iii. 8. 

I'll try the experiment. 

I have lately entertained my readei with 
two or three letters from a traveller, and may 
possibly, in some of my future papers, oblige 
him with more from the same hand. The fol- 
lowing one comes from a projector, which is 
a sort of correspondent as diverting as a tra- 
veller ; his subject having the same grace of 
novelty to recommend it, and being equally 
adapted to the curiosity of the reader. For my 
own part, I have always had a particular fondness 
for a project, and may say without vanity, that 
I have a pretty tolerable genius that way my- 
sel£ I could mention some which I have 
brought to maturity, others which have mis- 
(. tnied, and many more which I have yet hy 
me, and arc to take their fate in the world 
when I see a proper juncture: I had a hand 

in the land-bank, and was consulted with upon 
the reformation of manners. I have had se 
vera! designs upon the Thames and the New- 
river, not to mention my refinements upon 
lotteries and insurances, and that never-to- 
be-forgotten project, which, if it had succeeded 
to my wishes, would have made gold as plen- 
tiful in this nation a9 tin or copper. If my 
countrymen have not reaped any advantages 
from these my designs, it was not for want of 
any good-will towards them. They are obliged 
to me for my kind intentions as much as if 
they had taken effect. Projects are of a two- 
fold nature : the first arising from public- 
spirited persons, in which number I declare 
myself: the other proceeding from a regard 
to our private interest, of which nature is that 
in the following letter. 

• SLR* 
' A man of your reading knows very well 
that there were a set of men in old Rome, 
called by the name of Nomenclators, that is, 
in English, men who call every one by his 
name. When a great man stood for any pub- 
lic office, as that of a tribune, a consul, or a 
censor, he had always one of these nomen- 
clators at his elbow, who whispered in his ear 
the name of every one he met with, and by 
that means enabled him to salute every Roman 
citizen by his name when he asked him for his 
vote. To come to my purpose: I have with 
much pains and assiduity qualified myself for a 
nomenclator to this great city, and shall gladly 
enter upon my office as soon as I meet with 
suitable encouragement. I will let myself out 
by the week to any curious country gentleman 
or foreigner. If he takes me with him in a 
coach to the Ring,* I will undertake to teach 
him, in two or three evenings, the names of 
the most celebrated persons who frequent that 
place. If he plants me by his side in the pit, 
1 will call over to him, in the same manner, 
the whole circle of beauties that are disposed 
among the boxes, and at the same time point 
out to him the persons who ogle them from 
their respective stations. I need not tell you 
that I may be of the same use in any other 
public assembly. Nor do 1 only profess the 
teaching of names, but of things. Upon the 
sight of a reigning beauty, I shall mention her 
admirers, and discover her gallantries, if they 
are of public notoriety. I shall likewise mark 
out every toast, the club in which she was 
< leeted, and the number of votes that were on 
her side. Not a woman shall be unexplained 
that makes a figure either as a maid, a wife, 
or a widow. The men too shall be set out in 
their distinguishing characters, and declared 
whose properties they are. Their wit, wealth, 

* The Ring In IIyde-p*rk, at this time a tistiionaWc 
place ot 

No. 107. j 



or good-humour, their persons, stations, and 
titles, shall be described at large. 

4 I have a wife who is a nomenclatress, and 
will be ready, on any occasion, to attend the 
ladies. She is of a much more communicative 
nature than myself, and is acquainted with all 
the private history of London and Westminster, 
and ten miles round. She has fifty private 
amours which nobody yet knows any thing of 
but herself, and thirty clandestine marriages 
that have not been touched by the tip of a 
tongue. She will wait upon any lady at her 
own lodgings, and talk by the clock after the 
rate of three guineas an hour. 

' N. B. She is a near kinswoman of the au- 
thor of the New Atalantis. 

* 1 need not recommend to a man of your 
sagacity, the usefulness of this project, and do 
therefore beg your encouragement of it, which 
will lay a very great obligation upon 

* Your humble servant.' 

After this letter from my whimsical corres- 
pondent, I shall publish one of a more serious 
nature, which deserves the utmost attentiofl 
of the public, and in particular of such who 
are lovers of mankind. It is on no less a sub- 
ject than that of discovering the longitude, 
and deserves a much higher name than that 
of a project, if our language afforded any such 
term. But all I can say on this subject will 
be superfluous when the reader sees the names 
of those persons by whom this letter is sub- 
scribed, and who have done me the honour to 
send it me. I must only take notice, that the 
first of these gentlemen is the same person 
who has lately obliged the world with that 
noble plan, intitled, A Scheme of the Solar 
System, with the orbits of the planets and 
comets belonging thereto, described from 
Dr. Halley's accurate Table of Comets, Philo- 
sophy Trans. No. 297, founded on sir Tsaac 
Newton's wonderful discoveries, by William 
Whiston, M. A. 

* To Nestor Ironside, Esq. 
At Button's Coffee-House, near Covent- Garden. 

' SIR, London, July 11, 1713. 

* Having a discovery of considerable import- 
ance to communicate to the public, and find- 
ing that you are pleased to concern yourself 
in any thing that tends to the common benefit 
of mankind, we take the liberty to desire the 
insertion of this letter into your Guardian. 
We expect no other recommendation of it from 
you, but the allowing of it a place in so useful 
a paper. Nor do we insist on any protection 
from you, if what we propose should fall short 
of what we pretend to ; since any disgrace, 
which in that case must be expected, ought to 
lie wholly at our own doors, and to be entirely 
oorne by ourselves, which we hope we have 

provided for by putting our own names to this 

* It is well known, sir, to yourself and to 
the learned, and trading, and sailing world, 
that the great defect of the art of navigation 
is, that a ship at sea has no certain method, in 
either her eastern or western voyages, or even 
in her less distant sailing from the coasts, to 
know her longitude, or how much she is gone 
eastward or westward, as it can easily be known 
in any clear day or night, how much she is 
gone northward or southward. The several 
methods by lunar eclipses, by those of Jupiter's 
satellites, by the appulses of the moon to fixed 
stars, and by the even motions of pendulum 
clocks and watches, upon how solid foundations 
soever they are built, still failing in long voyages 
at sea, when they come to be practised ; and 
leaving the poor sailors frequently to the great 
inaccuracy of a log-line, or dead reckoning. 
This defect is so great, and so many ships have 
been lost by it, and this has been so long and 
so sensibly known by trading nations, that 
great rewards are said to be publicly offered 
for its supply. We are well satisfied, that the 
discovery we have to make as to this matter 
is easily intelligible by all, and ready to be 
practised at sea as well as at land ; that the 
latitude will thereby be likewise found at the 
same time ; and that with proper charges it 
may be made as universal as the world shall 
please ; nay, that the longitude and latitude 
may be generally hereby determined to a greater 
degree of exactness than the latitude itself is 
now usually found at sea. So that on all ac- 
counts we hope it will appear very worthy the 
public consideration. We are ready to disclose 
it to the world, if we may be assured that no 
other person shall be allowed to deprive us of 
those rewards which the public shall think fit 
to bestow for such a discovery ; but do not de- 
sire actually to receive any benefit of that na- 
ture till sir Isaac Newton himself, with such 
other proper persons as shall be chosen to assist 
him, have given their opinion in favour of this 
discovery. If Mr. Ironside pleases so far to 
oblige the public as to communicate this pro- 
posal to the world, he will also lay a great 
obligation on 

' His very humble servants, 



No. 108.] Wednesday, July 15, 1713. 

Abietibus juvenes patriis et montibus aeqni. 

Virg. iEn. ix. 674. 

Yoatns, of height and size, 

Like firs that on their mother-mountain rise. 

... Dryden. 

I do not care for burning my fingers in a 
quarrel, but since I have communicated to the 
world a plan which has given offence to some 



[No. 1 08-. 

genthnuu whom it would not be very safe to 
disoblige, I must insert the following remon 
strance ; and at the same time promise those 
of my correspondents who have drawn this 
upon themselves, to exhibit to the publrc any 
such answer as they shall think proper to 
make to it. 


' I was very much troubled to see the two 
letters which you lately published concerning 
the short club. You cannot imagine what airs 
all the little pragmatical fellows about us have 
given themselves since the reading of those 
papers. Every one cocks and struts upon it, 
and pretends to overlook us who are two foot 
higher than themselves. I met with one the 
other day who was at least three inches above 
five foot, which you know is the statutable 
measure of that club. This overgrown runt 
has struck off his heels, lowered his foretop, and 
contracted his figure, that he might be looked 
upon as a member of this new-erected society; 
nay, so far did his vanity carry him that he 
talked familiarly of Tom Tiptoe, and pretends 
to be an intimate acquaintance of Tim Tuck. 
For my part, I scorn to speak any thing to the 
diminution of these little creatures, and should 
not have minded them had they been still 
shuffled among the crowd. Shrubs and under- 
woods look well enough while they grow within 
the shades of oaks and cedars ; but when these 
pigmies pretend to draw themselves out from 
the rest of the world, and form themselves into 
a body, it is time for us who are men of figure 
to look about us. If the ladies should once take 
a liking to such a diminutive race of lovers, we 
should, iti a little time, see mankind epitomized, 
and the whole species in miniature ; daisy roots* 
would grow a fashionable diet. In order there- 
fore to keep our posterity from dwindling, and 
fetch down the pride of this aspiring race of 
upstarts, we have here instituted a tall club. 

' As the short club consists of those who are 
under five foot, ours is to be composed of such 
as are above six. These we look upon as the 
two extremes and antagonists of the species ; 
considering all those as neuters who fill up the 
middle space. When a man rises beyond six 
foot, he is a hypermeter, and may be admitted 
into the tall club. 

* We have already chosen thirty members, 
the most sightly of all her majesty's subjects. 
We elected a president, as many of the an- 
cients did their kings, by reason of his height, 
having only confirmed him in that station 
above us which nature had given him. He is 
a Scotch Highlander, and within an inch of a 
show. As for my own part, I am but a sesqui 
pedal, having only six foot and a half of stature. 

• D.inv roots, boiled in milk, me said u> check tin- growth 

Being the shortest member of the club, I am 
appointed secretary. 1/ you saw us all toge- 
ther you would take us for the sons of Anak. 
Our meetings are held like the old gothic par- 
liaments, sub dio, in open air ; but we shall make 
an interest, if we can, that we may hold our 
assemblies in Westminster-hall when it is not 
term-time. I must add to the honour of our 
club, that it is one of our society who is now 
finding out the longitude. The device of our 
public seal is, a crane grasping a pigmy in his 
right foot. 

* I know the short club value themselves 
very much upon Mr. Distich, who may possibly 
play some of his pentameters upon us, but if 
he does he shall certainly be answered in Alex- 
andrines. For we have a poet among us of a 
genius as exalted as his stature, and who is 
very well read in Longinus his treatise con- 
cerning the sublime.* Besides, I would have 
Mr. Distich consider, that if Horace was a 
short man, Musseus, who makes such a noble 
figure in Virgil's sixth ^Eneid, was taller by 
the head and shoulders than all the people of 
Elysium. I shall therefore confront his lepi- 
dissimum hfimuncionem (a short quotation, and 
fit for a member of their club) with one that 
is much longer, and therefore more suitable 
to a member of ours. 

" Quos circumfusos sic est affata Sibylla ; 
Musaaum ante omnes: medium nam plurima ttirba 
Hunc habet, at que bumeris extantem suscipit alt is.'' 
Virg. X.u. vi. G66. 
" To these the Sibyl thus her speech address'd : 
And first to him* surrouuded by the rest ; 
Tow'ring his height and ample was Lis breast." 


* If after all, this society of little men pro- 
ceed as they have begun, to magnify themselves, 
and lessen men of higher stature, we have re- 
solved to make a detachment, some evening 
or other, that shall bring away their whole club 
in a pair of panniers, and imprison them in a 
cupboard which we have set apart for that use, 
until they have made a public recantation. As 
for the little bully, 11m Tuck, if he pretends 
to be choleric, we shall treat him like his friend 
little Dicky, and hang him upon a peg until 
he comes to himself. 1 have told you our de- 
sign, and let their little Machiavel prevent it 
if he can. 

1 This is, sir, the long and the short of the 
matter, I am sensible 1 shall stir up a nest of 
wasps by it, but let them do their worst. I 
think that we serve our country by discou- 
raging this little breed, and hindering it from 
coming into fashion. If the fair sex look upon 
us with an eye of favour, we shall make some 
attempts to lengthen out the human figure, 
aud restore it to its ancient procerity. In the 

• Leonard Wclsted, whose translation of Longinui flrat 
appeared in 1712. 

t Musciis. 

No. 109.; 



mean time we hope old age has not inclined 
you in favour of our antagonists ; for I do assure 
you sir, we are all your high admirers, though 
none more than, * Sir, yours, &c. cs- 

No. 109.] Thursday, July 16, 1713. 

Pugnabat tunica sed tamen ilia tegi. 

Ovid. Amor. Lib. 1. Eleg. v. 14. 
Yet still she strove her naked charms to hide. 

I have received many letters from persons 
of all conditions, in reference to my late dis- 
course concerning the tucker. Some of them 
are filled with reproaches and invectives. A 
lady who subscribes herself Teraminta, bids 
me in a very pert manner mind my own affairs, 
and not pretend to meddle with their linen ; 
for that they do not dress for an old fellow, 
who cannot see them without a pair of specta- 
cles. Another, who calls herself Bubnelia, vents 
her passion in scurrilous terms ; an old ninny- 
hammer, a dotard, a nincompoop, is the best 
language she can afford me. Florella, indeed, 
expostulates with me upon the subject, and 
only complains that she is forced to return a 
pair of stays which were made in the extremity 
of the fashion, that she might not be thought 
to encourage peeping. 

But if on the one side I have been used ill, 
(the common fate of all reformers) I have on 
the other side received gfeat applauses and ac- 
knowledgments for what I have done, in having 
put a seasonable stop to this unaccountable 
humour of stripping, that was got among our 
British ladies. As 1 would much rather the 
world should know what is said to my praise, 
than to my disadvantage, I shall suppress what 
has been written to me by those who have re- 
viled me on this occasion, and only publish 
those letters which approve my proceedings. 

' I am to give you thanks in the name of 
half a dozen superannuated beauties, for your 
paper of the sixth instant. We all of us pass 
for women of fifty, and a man of your sense 
knows how many additional years are always 
to be thrown into female computations of this 
nature. We are very sensible that several 
young flirts about town had a design to cast us 
out of the fashionable world, and to leave us 
in the lurch by some of their late refinements. 
Two or three of them have been heard to say, 
that they would kill every old woman about 
town. In order to it, they began to throw off 
their clothes as fast as they could, and have 
played all those pranks which you have so 
seasonably taken notice of. We were forced 
to uncover, after them, being unwilling to give 
out so soon, and be regarded as veterans in the 
beau monde. Some of us have already caught 
our deaths by it. For my own part, I have not 
been without a cold ever since *his foolish 

fashion came up. I nave followed it thus far 
with the hazard of my life ; and how much 
farther I must go, nobody knows, if your paper 
does not bring us relief. You may assure your- 
self that all the antiquated necks about town 
are very much obliged to you. Whatever fires 
and flames are concealed in our bosoms (iu 
which perhaps we vie with the youngest of the 
sex) they are not sufficient to preserve us 
against the wind and weather. In taking so 
many old women under your care, you have 
been a real Guardian to us, and saved the life 
of many of your contemporaries. In short, we 
all of us beg leave to subscribe ourselves, 
' Most venerable Nestor, 

' your humble servants and sisters.' 

I am very well pleased with this approbation 
of my good sisters. I must confess I have al- 
ways looked on the tucker to be the decus et 
tut amen* the ornament and defence, of the 
female neck. My good old lady, the lady Lizard, 
condemned this fashion from the beginning, 
and has observed to me, with some concern, 
that her sex at the same time they are letting 
down their stays, are tucking up their petti- 
Coats, which grow shorter and shorter every 
day. The leg discovers itself in proportion 
with the neck. But I may possibly take another 
occasion of handling this extremity, it being 
my design to keep a watchful eye over every 
part of the female sex, and to regulate them 
from head to foot. In the mean time I shall 
fill up my paper with a letter which comes to 
me from another of my obliged correspondents. 


' This comes to you from one of those un- 
tuckered ladies whom you were so sharp upon 
on Monday was sennight. I think myself 
mightily beholden to you for the reprehension* 
you then gave us. You must know I am a 
famous olive beauty. But though this com- 
plexion makes a very good face when there are 
a couple of black sparkling eyes set in it, it 
makes but a very indifferent neck. Your fair 
women, therefore, thought of this fashion to> 
insult the olives and the brunetts. They know 
very well, that a neck of ivory does not make- 
so fine a show as one of alabaster. It is for 
this reason, Mr. Ironside, that they are so li- 
beral in their discoveries. We know very weH r 
that a woman of the whitest neck in the world,., 
is co you no more than a woman of snow ; but 
Ovid, in Mr. Duke's translation of him, seems 
to look upon it with another eye, when he- 
talks of Corinna, and mentions 

" her heaving breast, 

Courting the baud, aud suing to be pre-st." 

* Women of my complexion ought to be more 
modest, especially since our faces debar us from 

• The words milled on the larger silver «nd gold coins- 
of this kingom. 



[No. 110. 

all artificial whitenings. Could you examine 
many of these ladies who present you with such 
heautiful snowy chests, you would find they 
are not all of a piece. Good father Nestor, do 
not let us alone until you have shortened our 
necks, and reduced them to their ancient 

' I am, 
' your most obliged humble servant, 


I shaii have a just regard to Olivia's remon- 
strance, though at the same time I cannot but 
observe that her modesty seems to be entirely 
the result of her complexion. 03* 

No. 110.] Friday, July 17, 1713. 

Non ego paucis 

Offendor maculis, quas ant incuria nidit 

Ant hnmana parmn cavil uatura 

Hor. Ars Poet. ver. 351. 

1 will not quarrel with a slight mistake, 
Such as our nature's frailty may excuse. 


The candour which Horace shows in the 
motto of my paper, is that which distinguishes 
a critic from a caviller. He declares that he 
is not offended with those little faults in a poe- 
tical composition, which may be imputed to 
inadvertency, or to the imperfection of human 
nature. The truth of it is, there can be no 
more a perfect work in the world, than a per- 
fect man. To say of a celebrated piece, that 
there are faults in it, is in effect to say no more, 
than that the author of it was a man. For 
this reason I consider every critic that attacks 
an author in high reputation, as the slave in 
the Roman triumph, who was to call out to 
the conqueror, ' Remember, sir, that you are 
a man.' I speak this in relation to the follow- 
ing letter, which criticises the works of a great 
poet, whose very faults have more beauty in 
them than the most elaborate compositions of 
many more correct writers. The remarks are 
very curious and just, and introduced by a 
compliment to the work of an author, who I 
am sure would not care for being praised at 
the expense of another's reputation. I must 
therefore desire my correspondent to excuse 
me, if I do not publish either the preface or 
conclusion of his letter, but only the critical 
part of it. 

Our tragedy writers have been notoriously 
defective in giving proper sentiment! to the 

peiNnns they introduce. Nothing is more com- 
mon than to hear a heathen talking of angels 
And devils, the joys of heaven, and the pains 
uf hell, according to the Christian system. 

Lee's Alexander discovers him to be a Cartesian 
in the first page of CEdipus : 

The sun's sick too, 

Shortly he'll be an earth"- 

As Dryden's Cleomenes is acquainted with the 
Copernican hypothesis two thousand years he- 
fore its invention. 

" 1 am pleas'd with my own work ; Jove was not more 
With infant nature, when his spacious hand 
Had rounded this huge ball of earth and seas, 
To give it the first push, and see it roll 
Along the vast abyss" 

' I have now Mr. Dryden's Don 'Sebastian 
before me, in which J find frequent allusions 
to ancient history, and the old mythology of 
the heathen. Jt is not very natural to sup- 
pose a king of Portugal would be borrowing 
thoughts out of Ovid's Metamorphoses when 
he talked even to those of his own court ; but 
to allude to these Roman fables when he talks 
to an emperor of Barbary, seems very extraor- 
dinary. But observe how he defies him out 
of the classics, in the following lines : 

" Why didst not thou engage me man to man, 
And try the virtue of that Gorgon face 
To stare me into statue V 

' Almeyda at the same time is more book- 
learned than Don Sebastian. She plays a 
hydra upon the emperor that is full as good as 
the Gorgon. 

" O that I had the fruitful heads of hydra, 
That one might bourgeon where another fell I 
Still would 1 give thee work, still, still, thou tyrant, 
And hiss thee with thee last" 

' She afterwards, in allusion to Hercules, 
bids him " lay down the lion's skin, and take 
the distaff;" and in the following speech utters 
her passion still more learnedly. 

" No I were we join'd, even tho' it were in death, 
Our bodies burning in one funeral pile, _ 
The prodigy of Thebes wou'd be renew'd, 
And my divided (lame should break from thine." 

* The eniperor of Barbary shows himself ac- 
quainted with the Roman poets as well as either 
of his prisoners, and answers the foregoing 
speech in the same classic strain : 

" Serpent, I will engender poison with thee ; 
Our offspring, like the seed of dragons' teeth, 
Shall isMio arm'd, and tight themselves to death." 

,' Ovid seems to have been Muley Molock's 
favorite author, witness the lines that follow : 

" She still inexorable, still impel ions 
And loud, as if, like r.ucliiis, horn in thunder." 

' I shall conclude my remarks on his part 
with that poetical complaint of his being in 
love, and leave my reader to consider how 
prettily it would sound in the mouth of an 
emperor of Morocco : 

" The gprl of love once more nas shot his fires 
Into my soul, and my whole hea.t receives him." 

No. 111.] 



1 Muley Zeydan is as ngenious a man as his 
brother Muley Molock ; as where he hints at 
the story of Castor and Pollux : 

'•' May we ne'er meet/ 

For like the twins of Leda, when I mount, 
He gallops down the skies" 

* As for the mufti, we will suppose that he 
was bred up a scholar, and not only versed in 
the law of Mahomet, but acquainted with all 
kinds of polite learning 1 . For this reason he 
is not at all surprised when Dorax calls him a 
Phaeton in one place, and in another tells 
him he is like Archimedes. 

4 The mufti afterwards mentions Ximenes, 
Albornoz, and cardinal Wolsey by name. The 
poet seems to think he may make every per- 
son in his play know as much as himself, and 
talk as well as he could have done on the same 
occasion. At least I believe every reader will 
agree with me, that the above-mentioned sen- 
timents, to which I might have added several 
others, wouM have been better suited to the 
court of Augustus, than that of Muley Molock. 
I grant they are beautiful in themselves, and 
much more so in that noble language which 
was peculiar to this great poet. 1 only observe 
that they are improper for the persons who 
make use of them. Dryden is, indeed, gene- 
rally wrong in his sentiments. Let any one 
read the dialogue between Octavia and Cleo- 
patra, and he will be amazed to hear a Roman 
lady's mouth filled with such obscene raillery. 
If the virtuous Octavia departs from her cha- 
racter, the loose Dolabella is no less incon- 
sistent with himself, when, all of sudden, he 
drops the pagan, and talks in the sentiments 
of revealed religion. 

" Heaven has but 

Our sorrow for our sins, and then delights 
To pardon erring man. Sweet mercy seems 
Jts darling attiibute, which limits justice ; 
As if there were degrees in infinite : 
And infinite would rather want perfection 
Than punish to extent"' 

' I might show several faults of the same 
nature in the celebrated Aureng Zebe. The 
impropriety of thoughts in the speeches of the 
great mogul and his empress has been gene- 
rally censured. Take the sentiments out of 
the shining dress of words, and they would be 
too coarse for a scene in Billingsgate. 

I am, &c.' {t^- 

No. 111.] Saturdaij^ July 18, 1713. 

file aliquis de gente hircosa Centurionum 
Dicat : quod satis est sapio mihi ; non ego euro 
Esse qnod Arcesilas, a? rumnosiqise Soiones. 

Pers. Sat. iii. 77. 

Bat here, some captain of the land or fleet, 

Stout of his hands, but of a soldier's wit, 

Cries, I have sense to serve my turn, in store ; 

And he's a rascal who pretends to more : 

Dammee, whate'er those book-learned blockheads say 

Solon's the veriest fool in all the play. Dryden. 

I AM very much concerned when I see young 
gentlemen of fortune and quality so wholly 
set upon pleasures and diversions, that they 
neglect all those improvements in wisdom and 
knowledge which may make them easy to 
themselves, and useful to the world. The 
greatest part of our British youth lose their 
figure, and grow out of fashion by that time 
they are five-and-twenty. As soon as the na- 
tural gayety and amiableness of the young man 
wears off, they have nothing left to recommend 
them, but lie by the rest of their lives among 
the lumber and refuse of the species. It some- 
times happens, indeed, that for want of apply- 
ing themselves in due time to the pursuits of 
knowledge, they take up a book in their de- 
clining years, and grow very hopeful scholars 
by that time they are threescore. I must, 
therefore, earnestly press my readers, who are 
in the flower of their youth, to labour at those 
accomplishments which may set off their per- 
sons when their bloom is gone, and to lay in 
timely provisions for manhood and old age. 
In short, I would advise the youth of fifteen to 
be dressing up every day the man of fifty, or 
to consider how to make himself venerable at 

Young men, who are naturally ambitious, 
would do well to observe how the greatest men 
of antiquity made it their ambition to excel 
all their contemporaries in knowledge. Julius 
Cffisar and Alexander, the most celebrated in- 
stances of human greatness, took a particular 
care to distinguish themselves by their skill in 
the arts and sciences. We have still extant 
several remains of the former, which justify 
the character given of him by the learned men 
of his own age. As for the latter, it is a known 
saying of his, ' that he was more obliged to 
Aristotle, who had instructed him, than to 
Philip, who had given him life and empire. 
There is a letter of his recorded by Plutarch 
and Aulus Gelius, which he wrote to Aristotle 
upon hearing that he had published those lec- 
tures he had given him in private. This letter 
was written in the following words, at a time 
when he was in the height of his Persian con- 

'Alexander to Aristotle, greeting. 

1 You have not done well to publish your 
books of Select Knowledge ; for what is there 
now in which I can surpass others, if those 
things which I have been instructed in are 
communicated to every body? For my own 
part, I declare to you, 1 would rather excel 
others in knowledge than power. Farewell. 

We see by this letter, that the love of con* 



[No. li 

quest was but tbe second ambition in Alexan- 
der's soul. Knowledge is, indeed, that which, 
next to virtup. truly and essentially raises one 
man above another. It finishes one half of 
the human soul. It makes being pleasant to 
us, fills tbe mind with entertaining views, and 
administers to it a perpetual series of gratifi- 
cations. It gives ease to solitude, and grace- 
fulness to retirement. It fills a public station 
with suitable abilities, and adds a lustre to 
those who are in possession of them. 

Learning, by which I mean all useful know- 
ledge, whether speculative or practical, is, in 
popular and mixt governments, tbe natural 
source of wealth and honour. If we look into 
most of the reigns from tbe conquest, we shall 
find that the favourites of each reign have 
been those who have raised themselves. The 
greatest men are generally the growth of that 
particular age in which they flourish. A supe- 
rior capacity for business, and a more exten- 
sive knowledge, are the steps by which a new 
man often mounts to favour, and outshines the 
rest of his contemporaries. But when men are 
actually born to titles, it is almost impossible 
that they should fail of receiving an additional 
greatness, if they take care to accomplish 
themselves for it. 

The story of Solomon's choice does not only 
instruct us in that point of history, but fur- 
nishes out a very fine moral to us, namely, 
that he who applies his heart to wisdom, dues 
at the same time take the most proper method 
for gaining long life, riches, and reputation, 
which are very often not only the rewards, but 
the effects of wisdom. 

As it is very suitable to my present subject, 
I shall first of all quote this passage in the 
words of sacred writ, and afterwards mention 
an allegory, in which this whole passage is re- 
presented by a famous French poet : not ques- 
tioning but it will be very pleasing to such of 
my readers as have a taste of fine writing. 

* In Gibeon the Lord appeared to Solomon 
in a dream by night : and God said, Ask what 
I shall give thee. And Solomon said, Thou 
hast showed unto thy servant David my fa- 
ther great mercy, according as he walked be- 
fore thee in truth and in righteousness, and in 
uprightness of heart with thee, and thou hast 
kept for him this great kindness, that thou 
hast given him a son to sit on his throne, as it 
is this day. And now, O Lord my God, thou 
bast made thy servant king instead of David 
in y father : and I am but a little child ; I know 
not how to go out or come in. Give, therefore, 
thy servant an understanding heart to judge 
thy people, that I may discern between good 
and baJ : for who is able to judge this thy so 
great a people? And the speech pleased the 
J, <>nl, that Solomon bad asked this thing. 
And God said unto him, Because thou hast 
asked this thing, and hast not asked for thy- 

self long life, neither hast asked riches fo. 
thyself, nor hast asked the life of thine ene- 
mies, but hast asked for thyself understanding 
to discern judgment : Behold I have done ac- 
cording to thy words: Lo, I have given thee 
a wise and understanding heart, so that there 
was none like tbee before tbee, neither after 
thee shall any arise like unto thee. And I have 
also given thee that which thou hast not asked, 
both riches and honour, so that there shall not 
be any among the kings like unto thee all thy 
days. And if thou wilt walk in my ways, to 
keep my statutes and my commandments, as 
thy father David did walk, then I will lengthen 
thy days. And Solomon awoke, and behold it 

was a dream.' 

The French poet has shadowed this story in 
an allegory, of which he seems to have taken 
the hint from the fable of the three goddesses 
appearing to Paris, or rather from the vision 
of Hercules, recorded by Xenophon, where 
Pleasure and Virtue are represented as real per- 
sons making their court to the hero with all 
their several charms and allurements. Health, 
Wealth, Victory, and Honour are introduced 
successively in their proper emblems and cha- 
racters, each of them spreading her tempta- 
tions, and recommending herself to the young 
monarch's choice. Wisdom enters the last, and 
so captivates bim with her appearance, that he 
gives himself up to her. Upon which she in- 
forms bim, that those who appeared before her 
were nothing else but her equipage : and that 
since he had placed his heart upon Wisdom ; 
Health, Wealth, Victory, and Honour, should 
always wait on her as her handmaids. g?- 

No. 112.] Monday, July 20, 1713. 

Spenrit hiuiiam fugieuic penniL 

Hor. Lib. 3. Od. ii. SSL 

Scorn? the base earth, anil crowd below ; 
And with a soaring wing still mounts on high. 


The philosophers of king Charles bis reign 
were busy in finding out the art of flying. The 
famous bishop Wilkins was so confident of 
success in it, that he says he does not question 
but in the next age it will be as usual to hear 
a man call for his wings when he is going a 
journey, as it is now to call for his boots. The 
humour so prevailed among the virtuosos of this 
reign, that they were actually making parties 
to go up to the moon together, and were more 
put to it in their thoughts how to meet with 
accommodations by the way, than how to get 
(hither. Every one knows the story of tbe 
great lady * who at the same time was building 

* I In- diu-li.-.-s of Newcastle objected to bishop Wilkins, 
the want of buiting places in the way to his new world ; 
the bishop exprcwed his surprise tliat this objection should 
bo made by a lady who had been all her life employed in 
building casllos in the air. 

No. 112.] 



castles in the air for their reception. I always 
leave such trite quotations to my reader's pri- 
vate recollection. For which reason, also, [ 
shall forbear extracting out of authors several 
instances of particular persons who have ar- 
rived at some perfection in this art, and exhi- 
bited specimens of it before multitudes of be- 
holders. Instead of this I shall present my 
reader with the following letter from an artist, 
who is now taken up with this invention, and 
conceals his true name under that of Dsedalus. 

' Knowing that you are a great encourager 
of ingenuity, I think fit to acquaint you, that 
1 have made a considerable progress in the art 
of flying. I flutter about my room two or 
three hpurs in a morning, and when my wings 
are on, can go above a hundred yards at a hop, 
step, and jump. 1 can fly already as well as a 
turkey-cock, and improve every day. If I 
proceed as I have begun, I intend to give the 
world a proof of my proficiency in this art. 
Upon the next public thanksgiving day it is 
my design to sit astride the dragon upon Bo.w 
steeple, from whence, after the first discharge 
of the Tower guns r I intend to mount into the 
air, fly over Fleet-street, md pitch upon the 
May-pole in the Strand. From thence, by a 
gradual descent, I shall make the best of my 
way for St. James's-park, and light upon the 
ground near Rosamond's-pond. This I doubt 
not will convince the world that I am no pre- 
tender ; but before I set out, I shall desire to 
have a patent for making of wings, and that 
none shall presume to fly, under pain of death, 
with wings of any other man's making. I in- 
tend to work for the court myself, and will 
have journeymen under me to furnish the rest 
of the nation. I likewise desire, that I may 
have the sole teaching of persons of quality, 
in which I shall spare neither time nor pains 
until I have made them as expert as myself. 
I will fly with the women upon my back for 
the first fortnight. I shall appear at the next 
masquerade dressed up in my feathers and 
plumage like an Indian prince, that the quality 
may see how pretty they will look in their 
travelling habits. You know, sir, there is an 
unaccountable prejudice to projectors of all 
kinds, for which reason when I talk of prac- 
tising to fly, silly people think me an owl for 
my pains; but, sir, you know better things. 
I need not enumerate to you the benefits which 
will accrue to the public from this invention ; 
as how the roads of England will be saved 
when we travel through these j.ew highways, 
and how all family accounts will be lessened 
in the article of coaches and horses. I need 
not mention posts and packet-boats, with many 
other conveniences of life, which will be sup- 
plied ibis way. In short, sir, when mankind 
are in possession of this art, they will be able 

to do more business in threescore and ten years, 
then they could do in a thousand by the me- 
thods now in use. I therefore recommend my- 
self and art to your patronage, and am 

* Your most humble servant. 

I have fully considered the project of these 
our modern Daedalists, and am resolved so far 
to discourage it, as to prevent any person from 
flying in my time. It would fill the world with 
innumerable immoralities, and give such occa- 
sions for intrigues as people cannot meet with 
who have nothing but legs to carry them. You 
should have a couple of lovers make a midnight 
assignation upon the top of the monument, 
and see the cupola of St. Paul's covered with 
both sexes like the outside of a pigeon-house. 
Nothing would be more frequent than to see 
a beau flying in at a garret window, or a gal- 
lant giving chace to his mistress, like a hawk 
after a lark. There would be no walking in a 
shady wood without springing a covey of toasts. 
The poor husband could not dream what was 
doing over his head. If he were jealous, indeed, 
he might clip his wife's wings, but what would 
this avail when there were flocks of whore- 
masters perpetually hovering over his house? 
What concern would the father of a family be 
in all the time his daughter was upon the wing ? 
Every heiress must have an old woman flying 
at her heels. In short, the whole air would 
be full of this kind of gibier, as the French call 
it. 1 do allow, with my correspondent, that 
there would be much more business done than 
there is at present. However, should he apply 
for such a patent as he speaks of, I question 
not but there would be more petitions out of 
the city against it, than ever yet appeared 
against any other monopoly whatsoever. Every 
tradesman that cannot keep his wife a coach, 
could keep her a pair of wings, and there is no 
doubt but she would be every morning and 
evening taking the air with them. 

I have here only considered the ill conse- 
quences of this invention in the influence it 
would have on love affairs. I have many more 
objections to make on other accounts ; but 
these I shall defer publishing until I see my 
friend astride the dragon. 03» 

No. 113.] Tuesday, July 21, 1713. 
-Amphora ccepit 

Institui, currente rota, cur nrcetis exii? 

Hqr. Ars Poet. ver. 21. 

When yon begin with so much pomp and show, 
"Why is the end so little and so low ? 


I LAST night received a letter from an honest 
citizen, who it seems is in his honey-moon. It 
is written by a plain man on a plain subject, 
but has an air of good sense and natural ho- 
nesty in it, which may perhaps please the 

T n 


[No. 114, 

public afl mu< h as mya If. I shall not therefore 
scruple the giving it a place in my paper, 
which is designed tor common use, and for the 
benefit of the poor as well as rich. 

•• GOOD MR. l RONSIDK, Cheapade, July 18. 
' I have lately married a very pretty body, 
*bo being something younger and richer than 
myself, I was advised to go a wooing to her in 
a finer stnt of clothes than ever I wore in my 
fife ; fur I love to dress plain, and suitable to 
a man of my rank. However, I gained her 
heart by it. Upon the wedding day I put my- 
self, according to custom, in another suit, fire- 
new, with silver buttons to it. I am so out 
of countenance among my neighbours upon 
being so fine, that I heartily wish my clothes 
well worn out. I fancy every body observes 
me as I walk the street, and long to be in my 
old plain gear again. Besides, forsooth, they 
have put me in a silk night-gown and a gaudy 
fool's cap, and make me now and then stand 
in the window with it. I am ashamed to be 
dandled thus, and cannot look iii the glass 
without blushing to see myself turned into 
such a pretty little master. They tell me I 
must appear in my wedding-suit for the first 
month at least ; after which I am resolved to 
come again to my every day's clothes, for at 
present every day is Sunday with me. Now, 
in my mind, Mr. Ironside, this is the wrongest 
way of proceeding in the world. When a man's 
person is new and unaccustomed to a young 
body, he does not want any thing else to set 
him off. The novelty of the lover has more 
charms than a wedding-suit. I should think, 
therefore, that a man should keep his finery 
for the latter seasons of marriage, and not begin 
to dress until the honey- moon is over. I have 
observed at a lord mayor's feast that the sweet- 
meats do not make their appearance until 
people are cloyedwith beef and mutton, and 
begin to lose their stomachs. * But instead of 
this, we serve up delicacies to our guests, when 
their appetites are keen, and coarse diet when 
their bellies are full. As bad as I hate my 
silver-buttoned coat and silk night-gown, I am 
afraid of leaving them off, not knowing whether 
my wife will not repent of her marriage when 
she sees what a plain man she has to her hus- 
band. Pray, Mr. Ironside, write something to 
prepare her for it, and let me know whether 
you think she can ever love me in a hair button. 

* I am, &e. 

' P. S. I forgot to tell you of my white gloves, 
which liny say too, I must wear all the first 

My correspondent's observations are very 

just, and may he useful in low life; but to 

turn them to the advantage of people in higher 
station-, I shall raise the moral, and observe 

something parallel to the wooiinj and wedding- 

suit, in the behaviour of persons of figure 
After long experience in the world, and re- 
flections upon mankind, I find one particular 
occasion of unhappy marriages, which, though 
very common, is not very much attended to. 
What I mean is this: Every man in the time 
of courtship, and in the first entrance of mar- 
riage, puts on a behaviour like my correspon- 
dent's holiday suit, which is to last no longer 
than until he is settled in the possession of his 
mistress. He resigns his inclinations and un- 
derstanding to her humour and opinion. He 
neither loves nor hates, nor talks, nor thinks, 
in contradiction to her. He is controlled by a 
nod, mortified by a frown, and transported by 
a smile. The poor young lady falls in love with 
this supple creature, and expects of him the 
same behaviour for life. In a little time she 
finds that he has a will of his own, that he 
pretends to dislike what she approves, and that 
instead of treating her like a goddess, he uses 
her like a woman. What still makes the mis- 
fortune worse, we find the most abject flat- 
terers degenerate into the greatest tyrants. 
This naturally fills the spouse with sullenness 
and discontent, spleen and vapour, "Which, with 
a little discreet management, make a very 
comfortable marriage. I very much approve 
of my friend Tom Truelove in this particular. 
Tom made love to a woman of sense, and al- 
ways treated her as such during the whole time 
of courtship. His natural temper and good 
breeding hindered him from doing any thing 
disagreeable, as his sincerity and frankness of 
behaviour made him converse with her, before 
marriage, in the same manner he intended to 
continue to do afterwards. Tom would often 
tell her, ' Madam, jou see what a sort of man 
I am. If you will take me with all my faults 
about me, I promise to mend rather than grow 
worse.' 1 remember Tom was once hinting his 
dislike of some little trifle his mistress had said 
or done. Upon which she asked him, how he 
would talk to her after marriage, if he talked 
at this rate before ? * No, madam,' says Tom, 
' I mentjon this now because you are at your 
own disposal ; were you at mine I should be 
too generous to do it.' In short, Tom succeeded, 
and has ever since been better than his word. 
The lady has been disappointed on the right 
side, and has found nothing more disagreeable 
in the husband than she discovered in the lover. 


No. 111-.] Wednesday i July 23, 1713. 

Alvcos nccipite, el ccrisopns int'nndite : 
inn r< cusant, spibus conditio placet. 

Phddr. Lib. 3. Fab. xiii. 0. 

Til- the hives, and empty your work into the tenths ; 
The tlrnnea roftue, the bees accept the proposal. 

I think myself obliged to acquaint the public 
lion's head, of which I advertised them 

,0. IU.j 


1 1 

kbout a fortnight ago, is now erected at But- 
ion's coffee-house in Russel-street, Covent- 
jjarden, where it opens its mouth at all hours 
for the reception of such intelligence as shall 
!>e thrown into it. It is reckoned an excellent 
piece of workmanship, and was designed by a 
great hand in imitation of the antique Egyptian 
lion, the face of it being compounded out of that 
of a lion and a wizard. The features are strong 
and well furrowed. The whiskers are admired 
by all that have seen them. It is planted on 
the western side of the coffee-house, holding 
its paws under the chin upon a box, which 
contains every thing that he swallows. He is 
indeed a proper emblem of knowledge and ac- 
tion, being all head and paws. I need not ac- 
quaint my readers, that my lion, like a moth, 
or book-worm, feeds upon nothing but paper, 
and shall only beg of them to diet him with 
wholesome and substantial food. I must, there- 
fore, desire that they will not gorge him either 
with nonsense or obscenity ; and must likewise 
insist, that his mouth be not defiled with scan- 
dal, for I would not make use of him to revile 
the human species, and satirise those who ate 
his betters. I shall not suffer him to worry 
any man's reputation, nor indeed fall on any 
person whatsoever, such only excepted as dis- 
grace the name of this generous animal, and 
under the title of lions contrive the ruin of 
their fellow-subjects. I must desire, likewise, 
that intriguers will not make a pimp of my 
lion, and by his means convey their thoughts 
to one another. Those who are read in the 
history of the popes observe, that the Leos have 
been the best, and the Innocents the worst of 
that species, and I hope that I shall not be 
thought to derogate from my lion's character, 
by representing him as such a peaceable, good- 
natured, well- designing beast. 

I intend to publish once every week, ' the 
roarings of the lion,' and hope to make him 
roar so loud as to be heard over all the British 

If my correspondents will do their parts in 
prompting him, and supplying him with suit- 
able provision, I question not but the lion's 
head will be reckoned the best head in England. 
There is a notion generally received in the 
world, that a lion is a dangerous creature to 
all women who are not virgins: which may 
have given occasion to a foolish report, that 
my lion s jaws are so contrived, as to snap the 
hands of any of the female sex, who are not 
thus qualified to approach it with safety. I shall 
not spend much time in exposing the falsity of 
this report, which I believe will not weigh any 
thing with women of sense : I shall only say, 
that there is not one of the sex in all the neigh- 
bourhood of Covent-garden, who may not put 
her hand in his mouth with the same security 
as if she were a vestal. However, that the 
ladies may not be deterred from corresponding 

with me by this method, I must acquaint them 
that the coffee-man has a little daughter of 
about four years old, who has been virtuously 
educated, and will lend her hand upon this oc- 
casion to any lady that shall desire it of her. 

In the mean time I must further acquaint my 
fair readers, that I have thoughts of making 
a further provision for them at my ingenious 
friend Mr. Motteux's, or at: Cortieelli's, or some 
other place frequented by the wits and beauties 
of the sex. As I have here a lion's head for 
the men, I shall there erect a unicorn's head 
for the ladies, and will so contrive it, that they 
may put in their intelligence at the top of the 
horn, which shall convey it into a little re- 
ceptacle at the bottom prepared for that pur- 
pose. Out of these two magazines I shall 
supply the town from time to time, with wha* 
may tend to their edification, and at the same, 
time, carry on an epistolary correspondence 
between the two heads, not a little beneficial 
both to the public and to myself. As both these 
monsters will be very insatiable, and devour 
great quantities of paper, there will no small 
use redound from them to that manufacture 
in particular. 

The following letter having been left with 
the keeper of the lion, with a request from the 
writer that it may be the first morsel which 
is put into his mouth, I shall communicate it 
to the public as it came to my hand, without 
examining whether it be proper nourishment, 
as I intend to do for the future, 

1 Your predecessor, the Spectator, endea- 
voured, but in vain, to improve the charms of 
the fair sex, by exposing their dress whenever 
it launched into extremities. Among the rest, 
the great petticoat came under his considera- 
tion, but in contradiction to whatever he has 
said, they still resolutely persist in this fashion. 
The form of their bottom is not, I confess, al- 
together the same ; for whereas before it was 
of an orbicular make, they now look as if they 
were pressed, so that they seem to deny access 
to any part but the middle. Many are the in- 
conveniences that accrue to her majesty's loving 
subjects from the said petticoats, as hurting 
men's shins, sweeping down the wares of in- 
dustrious females in the streets, &c. I saw a 
young lady fall down the other day ; and be- 
lieve me, sir, she very much resembled an 
overturned bell without a clapper. Many other 
disasters I could tell you of, that befall them- 
selves, as well as others, by means of this un- 
wieldy garment. I wish, Mr. Guardian, you 
would join with me in showing your dislike of 
such a monstrous fashion, and I hope when the 
ladies see it is the opinion of two of the wisest 
men in England, they will be convinced of 
their folly. ' I am, Sir, 

' your daily reader and admirer, 

•TOM PLAIN.' £> 



[No. 115, 

No. U5.] Thwtday, July IS, 1713. 

Iiigciiluin par materia Juv. S it. i. 151. 

A teaftu equal to Hie subject. 

WHEN I read rules of criticism I immediately 
inquire after the works of the author who has 
written them, and by that means discover what 
it is he likes in a composition; for there is no 
question but every man aims at least, at what 
he thinks beautiful in others. If I find by his 
own mauner of writing that he is heavy and 
tasteless, I throw aside his criticisms with a 
secret indignation, to see a man without genius 
or politeness dictating to the world on subjects 
which I find are above his reach. 

If the critic has published nothing but rules 
and observations in criticism, I then consider 
whether there be a propriety and elegance in 
his thoughts and words, clearness and delicacy 
in his remarks, wit and good breeding in his 
raillery ; but if in the place of all these, I find 
nothing but dogmatical stupidity, I must beg 
such a writer's pardon if I have no manner of 
deference for his judgment, and refuse to con- 
form myself to his taste. 

1 So Macer and Mundungus school the times, 
And write in rugged prose the softer rules of rhymes. 
Well do they play the careful critic's part, 
Instructing donbly by their matchless art : 
Rules for good verse they first with pains indite, 
Then show us what are bad by what they write.' 

Mr. Conpreve to Sir R. Temple. 

The greatest critics among the ancients are 
those who have the most excelled in all other 
kinds of composition, and have shown the 
height of good writing even in the precepts 
which they have given for it. 

Among the moderns, likewise, no critic has 
ever pleased, or been looked upon as authentic, 
who did not show by his practice that he was 
a master of the theory. I have now one before 
me, who, after having given many proofs of 
his performances both in poetry and prose, 
obliged the world with several critical works. 
The author I mean is Strada. His prolusion 
on the style of the most famous among the an- 
cient Latin poets who are extant, and have 
written in epic verse, is one of the most enter- 
taining, as well as the most just pieces of cri- 
ticism that I have ever read : I shall make the 
plan of it the subject of this day's paper. 

It is commonly known that pope Leo the 
Tenth was a great patron of learning, and used 
to be present at the performances, conversa- 
tions, and disputes, of all the most polite wri- 
ters of his time. Upon this bottom, Strada 
founds the following narrative: When this 
pope was at his villa, that stood upon an emi- 
nence on the banks of the Tiber, the poets 
contrived the following pageant or machine 

for his entertainment : They made a huge 
floating mountain, thai was split at the top, 
in imitation of Parnassus. There were several 

marks on it, that distinguished ft for the ha- 
bitation of heroic poets. Of all the muses 
Calliope only made her appearance. It was 
covered up and down with groves of laurel. 
Pegasus appeared hanging off the side of a rock, 
with a fountain running from his heel. This 
floating Parnassus fell down the river to the 
sound of trumpets, and in a kind of epic mea- 
sure, for it was rowed forward by six huge 
wheels, three on each side, that by their con- 
stant motion carried on the machine, until it 
arrived before the pope's villa. 

The representatives of the ancient poets were 
disposed in stations suitable to their respective 
characters. Statius was posted on the highest 
of the two summits, which was fashioned in 
the form of a precipice, and hung over the rest 
of the mountain in a dreadful manner, so that 
people regarded him with the same terror and 
curiosity as they look upon a daring rope- 
dancer, whom they expect to fall every mo- 

Claudian was seated on the other summit, 
which was lower, and at the same time more 
smooth and even than the former. It was ob- 
served likewise to be more barren, and to pro- 
duce, on some spots of it, plants that are 
unknown to Italy, and such as the gardeners 
call exotics. 

Lucretius was very busy about the roots of 
the mountains, being wholly intent upon the 
motion and management of the machine which 
was under his conduct, and was indeed of his 
invention. He was sometimes so engaged 
among the wheels, and covered with machi- 
nery, that not above half the poet appeared to 
the spectators, though at other times, by the 
working of the engines, he was raised up, and 
became as conspicuous as any of the brother- 

Ovid did not settle in any particular place, 
but ranged over all Parnassus with great nim- 
bleness and activity. But as he did not much 
care for the toil and pains that were requisite 
to climb the upper part of the hill, he was ge- 
nerally roving about the bottom of it. 

But there was none who was placed in a more 
eminent station, and had a greater prospect 
under him than Lucan. He vaulted upon 
Pegasus with all the heat and intrepidity of 
youth, and seemed desirous of mounting into 
the clouds upon the back of him. But as the 
hinder feet of the horse stuck to the mountain 
while the body reared up in the air, the poet 
with great difficulty kept himself from sliding 
off his back, insomuch that the people often 
gave him for gone, and cried out every now 
and then that he was tumbling. 

.Virgil, with great modesty in his looks, was 
seated by Calliope, in the midst of a plantation 
of laurels which grew thick about him, and al- 
most covered him with their shade. He would 
not perhaps have been seen in this retirement, 

No. 116.] 



but that it was impossible to look upon Calliope, 
without seeing Virgil at the same time. 

This poetical masquerade was no sooner ar- 
rived before the pope's villa, but they received 
an invitation to land, which they did accord- 
ingly. The hall prepared for their reception 
was filled with an audience of the greatest 
eminence for quality and politeness. The poets 
took their places, and repeated each of them 
a poem, written in the style and spirit of those 
immortal authors whom they represented. The 
subject of these several poems, with the judge- 
ment passed upon each of them, may be an 
agreeable entertainment for another day's 
paper. fc> 

No. 116.] Friday, July 24, 1713. 

•Ridiculum acri 

Fortius el melius- 

Ror. LiD. 1. Sat. x. 14. 

A jest in scorn points out, and hits the thing 
More home, than the raorosest satire's stiug. 

There are many little enormities in the 
world which our preachers would be very glad 
to see removed ; but at the same time dare 
not meddle with them, for fear of betraying 
the dignity of the pulpit. Should they recom- 
mend the tucker in a pathetic discourse, their 
audiences would be apt to laugh out. I knew 
a parish, where the top woman of it used al- 
ways to appear with a patch upon some part 
of her forehead. The good man of the place 
preached at it with great zeal for almost a 
twelvemonth ; but instead of fetching out the 
spot which he perpetually aimed at, he only 
got the name of Parson Patch for his pa*ns. 
Another is to this day called by the name of 
Doctor Topknot, for reasons of the same na- 
ture. I remember the clergy during the time 
of Cromwell's usurpation, were very much 
taken up in reforming the female world, and 
showing the vanity of those outward orna- 
ments in which the sex so much delights. I 
have heard a whole sermon against a white- 
wash, and have known a coloured riband made 
the mark of the unconverted. The clergy of 
the present age are not transported with these 
.ndiscreet fervours, as knowing that it is hard 
for a reformer to avoid ridicule, when he is 
severe upon subjects which are rather apt to 
produce mirth than seriousness. For this reason 
I look upon myself to be of great use to these 
good men. While they are employed in ex- 
tirpating mortal sins, and crimes of a higher 
nature, I should be glad to rally the world out 
of indecencies and venial transgressions. While 
the doctor is curing distempers that have the 
appearance of danger or death in them, the 
merry-andrew has his separate packet for the 
megrims and tooth- ache. 
Thus much I thought fit to premise before 
resume the subject which I have already 

handled, I mean the naked bosoms of our 
British ladies. I hope they will not take it ill 
of me, if I still beg that they will be covered. 
I shall here present them with a letter on that 
particular, as it was yesterday conveyed to me 
through the lion's mouth. It comes from a 
quaker, and is as follows : 


' Our friends like thee. We rejoice to find 
thou beginnest to have a glimmering of the 
light in thee. We shall pray for thee, that 
thou mayest be more and more enlightened. 
Thou givest good advice to the women of this 
world to clothe themselves like unto our 
friends, and not to expose their fleshly tempta- 
tions, for it is against the record. Thy lion 
is a good lion ; he roareth loud, and is heard 
a great way, even unto the sink of Babylon ! 
for the scarlet whore is governed by the voice 
of thy lion. Look on his order. 

" Rome, July 8, 1713. A placard is published 
here, forbidding women of whatsoever quality 
to go with naked breasts ; and the priests are 
ordered not to admit the transgressors of this 
law to confession, nor to communion, neither 
are they to enter the cathedrals, under severe 

' These lines are faithfully copied from the 
nightly paper, with this title written over it, 
" The Evening Post, from Saturday, July the 
eighteenth, to Tuesday, July the twenty-first." 

* Seeing thy lion is obeyed at this distance, 
we hope the foolish women in thy own country 
will listen to thy admonitions. Otherwise thou 
art desired to make him still roar till all the 
beasts of the forest shall tremble. I must 
again repeat unto thee, friend Nestor, the 
whole brotherhood have great hopes of thee, 
and expect to see thee so inspired with the 
light, as thou mayest speedily become a great 
preacher of the word. I wish it heartily. 
* Thine, 
' in every thing that is praise-worthy, 
Tom's coffee-house, in Eirchin- 
lane, the 23d day of the month * TOM TREMB LE.' 
called July. 

It happens very oddly that the pope and 
I should have the same thoughts much about 
the same time. My enemies will be apt to say, 
that we hold a correspondence together, and 
act by concert in this matter. Let that be as 
it will, I shall not be ashamed to join with his 
holiness in those particulars which are indif- 
ferent between us, especially when it is for the 
reformation of the finer half of mankind. We 
are both of us about the same age, and consider 
this fashion in the same view. J hope that it 
will not be able to resist his bull and my lion. 
I am only afraid that our ladies will take oc- 
casion from hence to show their zeal for the 
protestant religion, and pretend to expose thoir 
naked bosoms only in opposition to popery. 




[No. 117, 

No. 11?.] Saturday, July 25, 1713. 

C hi. i | i. I>ii- >»"t Olid. Met. Lib. viii. 7C4. 

Hi,- good -in Heaven's peculiar cue. 

Looking over the late edition of monsieur 
Boileau's works, I was very much pleased with 
the article which he has added to his notes on 
the translation of Longinus. He there tells 
us, that the suhlime in writing rises either 
from the nobleness of the thought, the mag- 
nificence of the words, or the harmonious and 
lively turn of the phrase, and that the perfect 
suhlime arises from all these three in conjunc- 
tion together. He produces an instance of 
this perfect sublime in four verses from the 
Athalia of monsieur Racine. When Abner, 
one of the chief officers of the court, represents 
to Joad the high-priest, that the queen was 
incensed against him, the high-priest, not in 
the least terrified at the news, returns this 
answer : 

« Celui qui met nn frein a la fureur des flots, 
Scait aussi des medians anetcr les complots. 
Sounds avee respect a sa volonte sainte. 
Je crains E>ieu, clier Abner, et n'ai point d'autrecraint.' 

' He who ruleth the raging of the sea, knows 
also how to check the designs of the ungodly. 
I submit myself with reverence to his holy will. 
O Abner, I fear my God, and I fear none but 
him.' Such a thought gives no less a sublimity 
to human nature, than it does to good writing. 
This religious fear, when it is produced by just 
apprehensions of a divine power, naturally 
overlooks all human greatness that stands in 
competition with it, and extinguishes every 
other terror that can settle itself in the heart 
of man ; it lessens and contracts the figure of 
the most exalted person ; it disarms the tyrant 
and executioner ; and represents to our minds 
the most enraged and the most powerful as 
altogether harmless and impotent. 

There is no true fortitude which is not 
founded upon this fear, as there is no other 
principle of so settled and fixed a nature. 
Courage that grows from constitution very 
often forsakes a man when he has occasion for 
It ; and when it is only a kind of instinct in 
the soul, breaks out on all occasions without 
judgment or discretion. That courage which 
proceeds from the sense of our duty, and from 
the fear of offending him that made us, acts 
always in a uniform manner, and according to 
the dictates of right reason. ' 

What can the man fear, who takes care in 
all his actions to please a being that is omni- 
potent? A being who is able to crush all his 
adversaries? A being that can divert any mis- 
fortune from befalling him, or turn any such 
misfortune to bis advantage ? The person who 
lives with this constant and habitual regard to 
the great superintendanl of the world, is indeed 
lure that no real evil can come into his lot. 

Blessings may appear under the shape of pains, 
losses, and disappointments; but let him have 
patience, and he will see them in their proper 
figures. Dangers may threaten him, but he 
may rest satisfied that they will either not 
reach him ; or that, if they do, they will be the 
instruments of good to him. In short, he may 
look upou all crosses and accidents, sufferings 
and afflictions, as means which are made use 
of to bring him to happiness. This is even the 
worst of that man's condition whose mind is 
possessed with the habitual fear of which 1 am 
now speaking. But it very often happens, 
that those which appear evils in our own eyes, 
appear also as such to him who has human 
nature under his care ; in which case they are 
certainly averted from the person who has 
made himself by this virtue an object of divine 
favour. Histories are full of instances of this 
nature, where men of virtue have had ex- 
traordinary escapes out of such dangers as 
have enclosed them, and which have seemed 

There is no example of this kind in pagan 
history which more pleases me, than that which 
is recorded in the life of Timoleon. This ex- 
traordinary man was famous for referring all 
his successes to Providence. Cornelius Nepos 
acquaints us that he had in his house a private 
chapel, in which he used to pay his devotions 
to the goddess who represented Providence 
among the heathens. I think no man was 
ever more distinguished by the deity whom 
he blindly worshipped, than the great person 
I am speaking of, in several occurrences of his 
life, but particularly in the following one 
which I shall relate out of Plutarch. 

Three persons had entered into a conspiracy 
to assassinate Timoleon, as he was offering up 
his devotions in a certain temple. In order to 
it, they took their several stands in the most 
convenient places for their purpose. As they 
were waiting for an opportunity to put their 
design in execution, a stranger having observed 
one of the conspirators, fell upon him and slew 
him. Upon which the other two, thinking 
their plot had been discovered, threw them- 
selves at Timoleon's feet, and confessed the 
whole matter. This stranger, upon examina- 
tion, was found to have understood nothing of 
the intended assassination ; but having several 
years before had a brother killed by the con- 
spirator, whom he here put to death, and hav 
ing till now sought in vain for an opportunity 
of revenge, he chanced to meet the murderer 
in the temple, who had planted himself there 
for the above-mentioned purpose. Plutarch 
cannot forbear on this occasion, speaking with 
a kind of rapture on the schemes of Providence ; 
which, in this particular, had so contrived it, 
that the stranger should, for so great a space 
of time, be debarred the means of doing justice 
to his brother, until by the same blow that 

lVo. 118.] 



revenged the death of one innocent man, he 
preserved the life of another. 

For my own part, I cannot wonder that a 
man of Timoleon's religion, should have his 
intrepidity and firmness of mind ; or that he 
should he distinguished by such a deliverance 
as I have here related. Cr^- 

No. 118.] Monday, Julij 27, 1713. 

Largitor ingeni 


Pers. Prol. ver. 10. 

Witty want. 

1 AM very well pleased to find that my lion 
has given such universal content to all that 
have seen him. He has had a greater number 
of visitants than any of his brotherhood in the 
tower. 1 this morning examined his maw, 
where among much other food I found the 
following delicious morsels. 

' To Nestor Ironside, Esq. 

* I am a daily peruser of your papers. I have 
read over and over your discourse concerning 
the tucker; as likewise your paper of Thurs- 
day the sixteenth instant, in which you say it 
is your intention to keep a watchful eye over 
every part of the female sex, and to regulate 
them from head to foot. Now, sir, being by 
profession a mantua-maker, who am employed 
by the most fashionable ladies about town, 
I am admitted to them freely at all hours; 
and seeing them both drest and undrest, I 
think there is no person better qualified than 
myself to serve you (if your honour pleases) 
in the nature of a lioness. I am in the whole 
secret of their fashion ; and if you think fit 
to entertain me in this character, I will have 
a constant watch over them, and doubt not 
I shall send you from time to time such private 
intelligence, as you will find of use to you in 
your future papers. 

1 Sir, this being^a new proposal, I hope you 
will not let me iose the benefit of it; but that 
you will first hear me roar before you treat with 
any body else. As a sample of my intended 
services, I give you this timely notice of an 
improvement you will shortly see in the ex- 
posing of the female chest, which, in defiance 
of your gravity, is going to be uncovered yet 
more and more ; so that, to tell you truly, 
Mr. Ironside, I am in some fear lest my pro- 
fession should in a little time become wholly 
unnecessary. I must here explain to you a 
small covering, if I may call it so, or rather 
an ornament for the neck, which you have not 
vet taken notice of. This consists of a narrow 
lace, or a small skirt of fine ruffled linen, which 
runs along the upper part of the stays before, 
and crosses the breasts, without rising to the 
shoulders ; and being, -as it were, a part of the 

tucker yet kept in use, is therefore, by a par 
ticular name, called the modesty-piece. Now 
sir, what I have to communicate to you at 
present is, that at a late meeting of the strip- 
ping ladies, in which were present several emi- 
nent toasts and beauties, it was resolved for 
the future to lay the modesty-piece wholly 
aside. It is intended at the same time to lower 
the stays considerably before, and nothing but 
the unsettled weather has hindered this design 
from being already put in execution. Some 
few indeed objected to this last improvement, 
but were overruled by the rest, who alleged it 
was their intention, as they ingeniously ex- 
pressed it, to level their breast-works entirely, 
and to trust to no defence but their own virtue. 
* I am Sir, 
(if you please) your secret servant, 


' As by name, and duty bound, I yesterday 
brought in a prey of paper for my patron's 
dinner ; but by the forwardness of his paws, 
he seemed ready to put it into his own mouth, 
which does not enough resemble its prototypes, 
whose throats are open sepulchres. I assure 
you, sir, unless he gapes wider he will sooner 
be felt than heard. Witness my hand, 


' To Nestor Ironside, Esq. 


* Lions being esteemed by naturalists the 
most generous of beasts, the noble and ma- 
jestic appearance they make in poetry, wherein 
they so often represent the hero himself, made 
me always think that name very ill applied 
to a profligate set of men, at present going 
about seeking whom to devour : and though 
I cannot but acquiesce in your account of the 
derivation of that title to them, it is with great 
satisfaction I hear you are about to restore 
them to their former dignity, by producing 
one of that species so public spirited, as to 
roar for reformation of manners. " I will 
roar," says the clown in Shakespear, " that 
it will do any man's heart good to hear me ; 
I will roar, that 1 will make the duke say, 
Let him roar again, let him roar again." Such 
success, and such applause, I do not question 
but your lion will meet with, whilst, like that 
of Sampson, his strength shall bring forth 
sweetness, and his entrails abound with honey. 

' At the same time that I congratulate with 
the republic of beasts' upon this honour done to 
their king, I must condole with us poor mor- 
tals, who by distance of place are rendered in- 
capable of paying our respects to him, with the 
same assiduity as those who are ushered into 
his presence by the discreet Mr. Button. Upon 
this account, Mr. Ironside, I am become a 
suitor to you, to constitute an out-riding lion ; 
or, if you please, a jackall or two, to receive 



[No. 119 

.mid remit our homage in a more particular 
manner than is hitherto provided. As it is, 
our tenders of duty every now and then mis- 
carry hy the way; at least the natural self- 
love that makes us unwilling to think any 
thing that comes from us worthy of contempt, 
inclines us to believe so. Methinks it were 
likewise necessary to specify, by what means 
a .'present from a fair hand may reach his 
brindled majesty; the place of his residence 
being very unfit for a lady's personal appear- 
ance. * I am 

1 your most constant reader, 

' and admirer, 

« N. R.' 


4 It is a well known proverb in a certain part 
of this kingdom, " Love me, love my dog ;" 
and I hope you will take it as a mark of my 
respect for your person, that 1 here bring a bit 
for your lion.' *** 

What follows being secret history, it will be 
printed in other papers ; wherein the lion will 
publish his private intelligence. gs« 

No. 119.] Tuesday, July 28, 1713. 

poetarum venict manus, auxilio quae 

Sit mihi Hot: Lib. 1. Sat. iv. 141, 

A band of poets to my aid I'll call. 

There is nothing which more shows the 
want of taste and discernment in a writer than 
the decrying of any author in gross ; especially 
of an author who has been the admiration of 
multitudes, and that too in several ages of the 
world. This however is the general practice 
of all illiterate and undistinguishing critics. 
Because Homer and Virgil and Sophocles have 
been commended by the learned of all times, 
every scribbler who has no relish of their beau- 
ties, gives himself an air of rapture when he 
speaks of them. But as he praises these he 
knows not why, there are others whom he 
depreciates with the same vehemence, and 
upon the same account. We may see after 
what a different manner Strada proceeds in 
his judgment on the Latin poets ; for I intend 
to publish in this paper a continuation of that 
prolusion which was the subject of the last 
Thursday. 1 shall therefore give my reader a 
short account in prose of every poem which 
was produced in the learned assembly there 
described ; and if he is thoroughly conversant 
in the works of those ancient authors, he will 
see with how much judgment every subject is 
adapted to the poet who makes use of it, and 
with how much delicacy every particular poet's 
way of writing is characterised in the censure 
that is passed upon it. Lucan's: representative 
was the first who recited before that august 
assembly. As Lucan was a Spaniard, hie poem 
tl< ( i honour to that nation, which at the same 

time makes the romantic bravery in the hero 
of it more probable. 

Alphonso was the governor of a town invested 
by the Moors. During the blockade they made 
his only son their prisoner, whom they brought 
before the walls, and exposed to his father's 
sight, threatening to put him to death if he 
did not immediately give up the town. The 
father tells them if he had a hundred sons he 
would rather see them all perish, than do an 
ill action, or betray his country. ' But,' savs 
he, ' if you take a pleasure in destroying the 
innocent, you may do it if you please: behold 
a sword for your purpose.' Upon which he 
threw his sword from the wall, returned to his 
palace, and was able, at such a juncture, to sit 
down to the repast which was prepared for 
him. He was soon raised by the shouts of the 
enemy, and the cries of the besieged. Upon 
returning again to the walls, he saw his son 
lying in the pangs of death ; but far from be- 
traying any weakness at such a spectacle, he 
upbraids his friends [for their sorrow, and re- 
turns to finish his repast. 

Upon the recital of this story, which is ex- 
quisitely drawn up in Lucan's spirit and Ian 
guage, the whole assembly declared their opi- 
nion of Lucan in a confused murmur. The 
poem was praised or censured according to 
the prejudices which every one had conceived 
in favour or disadvantage of the author. These 
were so very great, that some had placed him, 
in their opinions, above the highest, and others 
beneath the lowest of the Latin poets. Most 
of them, however, agreed, that Lucan's genius 
was wonderfully great, but at the same time 
too haughty and headstrong to be governed 
by art, and that his style was like his genius, 
learned, bold, and lively, but withal too tra- 
gical and blustering. In a word, that he chose 
rather a great than a just reputation ; to which 
they added, that he was the first of the Latin 
poets who deviated from the purity of the 
Roman language. 

The representative of Lucretius told the 
assembly, that they should soon be sensible of 
the difference between a poet who was a native 
of Rome, and a stranger who had been adopted 
into it: after which he entered upon his sub- 
ject, which I find exhibited to my hand in a 
speculation of one of my predecessors.* 

Strada, in the person of Lucretius, gives an 
account of a chimerical correspondence be- 
tween two friends, by the help of a certain 
loadstone, which had such a virtue in it, that 
if it touched two several needles, when one of 
the needles so touched began to move, the 
other, though at never so great a distance, 
moved at the same time, and in the same 
manner. He tells us, that two friends, being 
each of them possessed of one of these needles, 

ectator, No. 841. 

No. 119.] 



made a kind of dial-plate, inscribing it with 
he four-and-twenty letters, in the same man- 
ner as the hours of the day are marked upon 
the ordinary dial-plate. Then they fixed one 
of the needles on each of these plates in such 
a manner that it could move round without 
impediment, so as to touch any of the four-and- 
twenty letters. Upon their separating from 
one another into distant countries, they agreed 
to withdraw themselves punctually into their 
closets at a certain hour of the day, and to 
converse with one another by means of this 
their invention. Accordingly, when they were 
some hundred miles asunder, each of them 
shut himself up in his closet at the time ap- 
pointed, and immediately cast his eyes upon 
his dial-plate. If he had a mind to write any 
thing to his friend, he directed his needle to 
every letter that formed the words which he 
had occasion for, making a little pause at the 
end of every word or sentence to avoid confu- 
sion. The friend, in the mean while, saw his 
own sympathetic needle moving of itself to 
every letter which that of his correspondent 
pointed at. By this means they talked toge- 
ther across a whole continent, and conveyed 
their thoughts to one another in an instant 
over cities or mountains, seas or deserts. 

The whole audience were pleased with the 
artifice of the poet who represented Lucretius, 
observing very well how he had laid asleep 
their attention to the simplicity of his style in 
some verses, and to the want of harmony in 
others, by fixing their minds to the novelty 
of his subject, and to the experiment which 
he related. Without such an artifice they 
were of opinion that nothing would have 
sounded more harsh than Lucretius's diction 
and numbers. But it was plain that the more 
learned part of the assembly were quite of 
another mind. These allowed that it was pe- 
culiar to Lucretius, above all other poets, to 
be always doing or teaching something, that 
no other style was so proper to teach in, or 
gave a greater pleasure to those who had a 
true relish for the Roman tongue. They added 
further, that if Lucretius had not been em- 
barrassed with the difficulty of his matter, and 
a little led away by an affectation of antiquity, 
there could not have been any thing more per- 
fect than his poem. 

Claudian succeeded Lucretius, having chosen 
for his subject the famuus contest between the 
nightingale and the lutanist, which every one 
is acquainted with, especially since Mr. Philips 
has so finely improved that hint in one of his 

He had no sooner finished but the assembly 
rung with acclamations made in his praise. 
His first beauty, which every one owned s was 
the great clearness and perspicuity which ap- 
peared in t